


A Masterpiece of Salvation

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Artist!Sherlock, Caring!Mycroft, Dark, Firefight, Graphic-ish violence, M/M, Slash, Soldier!John, Something that resembles torture and probably is but isn't graphic, interogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives alone at 221B, with only Mrs. Hudson and his ever-meddlesome brother to watch over him. But he doesn't care; he has his work. And his art. And that's all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is un-Bata'd and not Brit-picked, and I'm still new at this, so please point out any mistakes you see.  
> Thanks!

Sherlock wakes up screaming. It wasn’t unusual for him, these days. And the worst, most embarrassing part: they weren’t even his nightmares. He had pushed himself into a sitting position with a yell, and now stares at the celling, hoping beyond hope he hasn’t woken Mrs. Hudson. When he hears no footsteps on the stairs, he starts breathing again and collapses back onto the bed in a tired, sweaty heap.

His brother keeps badgering him about get more sleep, and though Sherlock would never admit it, he knows his insufferable relative is correct. A quick glance at the clock, however, shows that it’s only three in the morning. After a day of chasing criminals and then a late night of work under painfully bright lights, he really needs more than three and a half hours of sleep. Even he was willing to admit that.

If only the Goddamn nightmares would go away.

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh and pulls himself out of bed. He’s still dressed in loose pants and a t-shirt, and doesn’t bother with his dressing gown; it isn’t like anyone would see him at three in the morning.

The sitting room is still as much of a mess now as it had been at 11:30 last night. Trays filled with half-used paint are strewn about the room, along with their corresponding works. Sherlock shuffles into the kitchen and digs out a clean mug, casting a tired glance over the water-filled sink, a dozen or so paint brushes sitting on the bottom. 

The mug is quickly filled with coffee and Sherlock returns to the sitting room. There’s in indirect path to the desk carved out, and he navigates it practically with his eyes closed. At the desk, there’s a very, very small part kept clear and covered with watercolor paper and charcoal pencils. Sherlock sits, places his coffee in the same, ring-stained place as always and grabs a pencil.

This time it was a gully, in a forest. The high dirt sides had scared him, given him an almost panicky feeling in the pit of his stomach. But the feeling was tightly controlled, both by training and by experience. Too much experience. 

And the feeling hadn’t been for himself, either; in fact, Sherlock hadn’t thought about himself at all. All of his fear had been for the men around him. His teammates, his friends, his responsibility.

Sherlock remembers looking down at his arm, seeing the red cross denoting him as medical personal, maybe a doctor. It stood out brightly against the sandy cammo uniform he’d been wearing. He looked back up, eyes frantically searching the ridge of the gully. Looking at his teammates, he saw they were all just as nervous as he was.

They kept walking, though; there was no going back. They could see where the land leveled out, where it wouldn’t be so dangerous. Everyone relaxed slightly, then the man on point said something, and muscles tightened again. But no bullets started firing, thank God, so it must have been just a warning.

They get to a part where there must have been some type of landslide. The gully was wider there, and several big boulders might actually have given some cover. It they were going to be attacked, though, surely no one could be stupid enough to do it there-

There’s a flicker of movement and someone yelled and Sherlock dived forward, behind one of the rocks, knowing he had to live to save others. Guns start firing all around him and bullets ricochet off the stone. Someone yelled, went down, started screaming. Sherlock ran over to him and dragged him back to cover, and started cutting the clothes away from his leg. It was easy to tell where the wound was; the big red spot that made the guy scream when you so much as breathed on it. He needed to pull out the bullet and-

That was when Sherlock had woken up. A fairly anti-climactic part, which only made the nightmares all the more strange. He looks down at the watercolor paper; he’s used three sheets this time. All three are vague – barely more than shapes and shadows – but they’re dramatic and intense. 

Sherlock shuffles them together and pulls a key from around his neck, hiding under this shirt. It unlocks a drawer in the desk, and Sherlock slides the sketches in. In the brief glimpse of light before the drawer is shut again, Sherlock sees white paper, black charcoal, and a few pale water colors on some of the sketches. They usually turn out well, surely good enough to sell. But these Sherlock will never sell. Ever.

Sherlock drinks more of the coffee and contemplates the canvas sitting on the other side of the desk. The room is crawling with them; most people can’t take a half-step without stepping in paint or canvas or something they would completely muck up, forcing Sherlock to fix it or start over or something.

He keeps the flat clean out of necessity; one can’t have dust in the paint. And if dishes overtook the kitchen, where would he clean his tools? Art is his one true love, after all; even his infrequent experiments and all the crime-solving happens somewhere else: Barts, the Met, Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen…

Sherlock scowls; that had been a bad idea. He’d nearly starved when Mrs. Hudson had stopped bringing him food. Only after he’d lost five pounds and had painted her a portrait of the sorry things she calls flowers had she started feeding him again. Time also had been a factor, Sherlock was sure. But proving that theory might endanger his art, so he chose to let it go.

Sherlock stands with his coffee and walks around to the other side of the desk, following trails only he can see. It's just a background right now, various browns, going from chocolate to a peachier, skin tone color. The dark made up the backdrop, the lighter colors swirling around in front. Sherlock's actually pleased with it, but not sure what to do on top of it.

“It could use a little green.” Sherlock mutters, cocking his head and looking at the picture at a new angle. “But not proper green; too strong.”

Sherlock’s mobile buzzes, and Sherlock’s eyes drift to where it sits on the table. He makes his way back to the kitchen, taking his time to refill his mug before picking up the phone.

Having trouble sleeping? The coffee will surely keep you awake – MH

Sherlock scowls and hits reply.

One could ask the same of you, brother dear. Let’s see if I can find it, shall we? SH

He sets the phone back on the table and gives the kitchen a cursory glance. The camera Mycroft stashed in his flat would have to be elevated to see what was in the cup unless he saw the coffee pot, or perhaps heard it. No, these cameras didn’t have audio. Seeing the coffee pot was most likely. So kitchen then, unless it was directly across the flat. No, too many easels and canvases, the view would be too often blocked. Kitchen it was.

Sherlock turns to the part of the kitchen directly across from the coffee pot and looks it over thoroughly. The vent was too obvious, the crack in the wall too small. The corner, however, was nice and dark, the light never hitting it. That, oh, that would be ideal. 

Sherlock walks over, knowing Mycroft could not have hidden it out of arm’s reach without drawing attention, and Sherlock wasn’t any shorter than his brother. He runs his fingers over the corner, searching and finding the cold, smooth ball of metal and glass that makes up one of his brother’s spy cameras.

He yanks the bug out, and crushes it under his foot, throwing the pieces into the garbage. Such a meddlesome brother; sentimental, too. He always riled against it, and yet here he was practicing it shamelessly. Or maybe shamefully. Maybe that was why he couldn’t just ask. But both Sherlock and Mycroft knew that if he asked, Sherlock would lie every time. Who cared what Mycroft thought? Who cared what Mycroft knew? Who cared about Mycroft at all? Just a meddlesome bother of a brother.

Sherlock crosses to the sofa and flops onto it, fingers steepled elegantly under his chin. He goes to his mind palace and thinks about the art of greats past. Through pure exhaustion, and no intent on his part, Sherlock is asleep within five minutes.

He wakes up shaking, drenched in sweat again. But at least he’s not screaming. That’s an improvement. Sherlock sits up properly and rubs his face with his hands. This nightmare was less of a nightmare and more of just a dream. He was getting his hair cut. Shaved off, really, by the sound of it. And every lock of hair that had fallen on the floor had been blond, a sort of pale, golden-gray color. 

“I could make a nice green out of that.” Sherlock mutters, then turns his head slightly as the door creaks open.

“What were you saying, dear?” Mrs. Hudson comes in with a tray of tea and English muffins. 

“Nothing, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock stands and picks gray, yellow, and green acrylic paints from his case. He digs a clean tray from the back of a drawer in the kitchen and starts mixing different amounts of each of the three. He eventually adds black and white to the mix, refraining from asking Mrs. Hudson to fetch them because no one touches his paints.

Mrs. Hudson putters around the kitchen, cleaning some of the dishes that had started to make a small collection on one counter, fetching old coffee cups from the sitting room.

“Sherlock, dear, you really ought to eat something.” She says, coming up behind him when all the dishes were clean and in the drain. “Can’t this wait?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson, it cannot.” He pauses and looks up at her. “But I’m almost done.”

“That’s good, dear. I’ll be downstairs if you need something.” She leaves him to his work, and by the time Sherlock gets to the tea and muffins, they’re all cold, but that’s okay. He downs them mechanically, his mind still lost in colors. 

He washes his hands and takes the tray of new paint to the brown canvas he was looking at earlier. Next to the browns, the gold-gray looks almost green, even though he didn’t add much at all. Only a drop or two. It could easily be someone’s hair color, though Sherlock had absolutely not intended it that way.

He adds more swirls, accenting and adding to what he already has. A few times he mixes in a little brown, and likes the shading effect he gets. He spends most of the morning perfecting his work before the doorbell downstairs rings.

Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes briefly, before opening them again and resolutely ignoring it. It rings twice more before his phone buzzes. It’s not Lestrade, of that much Sherlock is certain. No one else matters at this moment. 

The doorbell starts ringing again and Sherlock blocks it out completely. A few minutes later, footsteps on the stairs prove Mrs. Hudson answered it. Sherlock hears the click of an umbrella on wood, but it’s not raining outside and there’s no squeak of water, so it’s Mycroft. Of course it’s Mycroft.

The footsteps stop at the door and for a while no one says anything. Sherlock doesn’t turn to acknowledge his brother or invite him in, and Mycroft doesn’t bother to try and start a conversation. Not for a long time.

Eventually, though, he does break the silence, maybe because he realizes Sherlock would ignore him to the end of the earth and he probably doesn’t have that kind of time anyway.

“I like what you’ve done with the red piece in the corner.” Sherlock can hear the honesty in his voice; Mycroft always did have an eye for art. He was a complete failure at creating it himself, but he could see what was good or bad in other works.

Sherlock only grunts.

“You didn’t need to smash the camera; you could have merely given it back to me.” Mycroft presses forward admirably.

“You should stop putting bugs in my flat, Mycroft. You should know better.”

“There are others you haven’t found yet, you know.”

“I guessed, and now you’ve confirmed it for me. Thank you. I’ll be sure to find them this afternoon.” Sherlock still hasn’t looked at his brother, still perfecting the canvas in front of him.

“Why that color?” Mycroft asks, coming to stand next to him. Sherlock would have complained he was in the light, but Mycroft would have known it was a lie. 

“Because it looks good.”

“Yes, it does. But where did you get the inspiration; it’s such an unusual color?” 

Sherlock scowls and ignores the question. Perhaps Mycroft will just think he's being moody. Sherlock was accused of it often enough.

There's a long pause, and Sherlock is beginning to think his little lie hasn’t worked, but then Mycroft straightens and turns back toward the door. “Well, I have a few meetings still this afternoon. Good luck with your art.” The door closes and he’s gone. 

Sherlock finally looks up at the door and his scowl deepens. Turning back to the canvas, he suddenly doesn’t feel like slaving over it any more. He pulls shrink-wrap around the tray and sets the brush in the sink. The number of brushes in there is getting ridiculous. I won’t be able to get any work done, Sherlock realizes. So he resigns himself to cleaning them. 

It’s not as bad as he always makes himself think. The task gives his hands something to do, and it’s oddly soothing. It probably has something to do with the fact that he’s cleaning paint brushes, and painting always relaxes him. His subconscious makes the connection between the two and-

Sherlock’s phone buzzes again and he looks at it irately. He pulls his hands out of the water and wipes them off on his shirt, not caring enough to find a towel. The text is from Molly, the results of an experiment he asked her to run the other day. Sherlock smiles as his theory is proven correct and opens a new message to Lestrade.

If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH

Sherlock wakes up quickly the next morning. One moment he’s asleep and dreaming, and the next he’s wide awake and racing downstairs. He makes a beeline for the pencils and paper he’d reset on the desk the night before. It was a face; he had a face now.

He’d been with some friends of his, not teammates, but people he saw often. They were sharing old pictures taken – when, a year ago? – and someone had said “here’s you” and handed him a picture. Shortly after seeing it, Sherlock had woken up. He had to remember that face, he just had to.

The person in the dream didn’t look like Sherlock. His hair was short and gold-gray, as they’d already established, and he had a strong jaw, blue-gray eyes, deeply tanned skin. His hair was slightly more gold, like it had been sun-bleached, in the picture, and his t-shirt had the markings of a captain. So he was a doctor.

Sherlock had no clue when he’d started, but he was done at about sunrise. Mycroft was happily unaware of his late-night exploits, so Sherlock would never find out. But after innumerable hours and a dozen sheets of paper, Sherlock had the face captured perfectly. Just perfectly. 

He gets up to get coffee, but he’s out and settles for instant-tea. He collapses on the sofa, already exhausted and it's not even eight o’clock. Probably not good.

His eyes lite upon the brown and gold canvas. The gold would go well with the Captain’s tan, Sherlock decided, and his hair, of course. His eyes would stand out really well; the whole effect would be rather stunning.

Sherlock pushes himself into a more upright position on the sofa, leaning toward the canvas, picturing the Captain against it. His gaze is so intense and his focus so complete, he doesn’t even hear Mrs. Hudson come to check on him.

Sherlock makes a snap decision and jumps up, grabbing a new tray and the old one from yesterday, new paints, several now-clean brushes, a glass of water, and plops down in front of the canvas. 

He doesn’t move for the next three days.

By the time he’s done, Sherlock’s splattered with paint all over his shirt and face. The shirt’s ruined, and it wasn’t just a cheap t-shirt like he usually wears when painting; it was a dress shirt, an off-white-gray color, an old favorite. Sherlock had long since rolled the sleeves up, and for the better, as his arms and fingers were beginning to look like part of the painting itself.

He’d gotten Mrs. Hudson to change the water several times, so it’s not too badly polluted, but it needs to be changed again. The stand he was using as a makeshift table is coated and around the garbage bin are several used paper towels that hadn’t quite made it.

Sherlock leans back slightly to contemplate his work and get rid of the kinks in his back and neck. The painting itself is pure perfection. The Captain is portrayed from the waist up, no shirt. All strong lines and tan skin, Sherlock can’t take his eyes away from it. The man had been handsome to begin with, but now… he was completely irresistible to Sherlock.

If only he were real.

Sherlock leaves to get new water; he still wants to do some touchup work. When he comes back, one of the Captain’s eyes is closed. Sherlock frowns; he hadn’t painted it that way, and no one could alter it that quickly, assuming someone else was in the flat, and no one else was.

A quick glance at the clock proves he's been up for days straight, and Sherlock knows he hasn’t eaten in a while. Maybe it’s just a hallucination that will go away with some sleep. Sherlock turns back to the painting. The eye is back open. That settles it; just a hallucination.

Sherlock sits down again and sets the water on the table. He picks his brush back up and turns to the painting. And it’s moving. The Captain was moving his hands in front of him, as if checking to see if they were real. He looks up and meets Sherlock’s gaze. And winks.

Sherlock leans back quickly and blinks, shaking his head. Just exhaustion; just a hallucination. That’s all. When he opens his eyes again, he expects everything to be back to normal. Instead the Captain’s braced both hands on the frame of the painting and is leaning forward slightly. Outside the frame.

Sherlock’s mind stops working; it just stops. This is impossible. He reaches forward slowly, paint brushes still in hand, and touches the Captain’s cheek. Solid. Next his hair. Equally solid. Sherlock reaches down his chest and around his side, crossing the threshold of the painting. Still solid.

He looks back up at the Captain’s face. The man is smirking now, and Sherlock realizes how awkward what he just did was. Embarrassed slightly, he’s about to withdraw his hand when the Captain leans forward suddenly, wrapping his right hand around Sherlock’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. 

Sherlock’s body freezes, and then he relaxes into the contact, leaning forward to press his mouth more firmly against the Captain’s. He wraps his right arm over the Captain’s shoulder blade, paint brushes still in hand. 

They shift slightly to get a better angle, and the Captain runs his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock opens his mouth and nearly dies of the pleasure. The fact that this was completely impossible is now forgotten.

A sudden knock at the door breaks the moment, and Sherlock turns to face it angrily. Can’t they see he’s busy?

It’s Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, both hovering slightly nervously by the doorway, looking otherwise unperturbed by the fact a painting has come to life.

“Hey mate, I was wondering what happened to you. There was another serial suicide, this one with a note. I need… I need your help. Are you coming?” Lestrade asks. Sherlock realizes his phone did go off several times, but he can’t go now. Not now. Can’t they see…?

Sherlock turns back to the painting, and his jaw drops in shock. It’s completely normal again. Still as perfect as before, but no longer alive. His hand is simply touching canvas.

Sherlock stands quickly, knocking the chair back in sudden fury. “NO!” He roars. “You ruined it! You can’t have! No!” Sherlock touches the painting, the Captain’s face, but it’s only canvas, not skin. Sherlock roars again, but it turns into a wail and he collapses into a broken heap on the floor in front of the painting, muttering nonsense things. He’s gone, Sherlock thinks. My Captain, he’s gone. But… he can’t be. He just can’t be. I need him. Please! Sherlock turns his eyes skyward and for the first time in his life, prays to God. Please, God, let him live…


	2. Dreaming of Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Chapter One as seen by John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very angst-filled and dark, so read the warnings. He gets interrogated and there is pain caused during the interrogation but it't not terrible and it's not long.  
> Sorry, I honestly didn't mean for it to get this dark, things just took a turn of their own. And sorry for the long wait.  
> As usual, not Bata'd or Brit-picked, and the word processor on my iPad doesn't check grammar, so I'm going to apologize up front again and direct you do the comments.  
> Thank you and enjoy.

John knows the ravine is dangerous, and he hates walking down it because if they're caught it will be a slaughter. And John hates to lose men, not like a general looking at a casualty list. Like a friend; like losing his left hand; like losing a piece of his soul. It's the fruit of his demons. 

He looks at the patch on his arm. Bright red and shining, it represents what John is at his core, and he knows it. A giver, a healer; he'd sacrifice himself a thousand times to save his teammates, he'd put himself at risk thoughtlessly for them. Hell, he was in the middle of a war zone, walking down a ravine practically screaming shoot-me-now, and all he had for protection was a helmet, a bullet-proof vest, and a pistol. He was crazy.

And so was everyone else around him. They all looked so tense, some scared, some wary, some just too tired to really care anymore. But then they round a corner - guns held just a centimeter higher, in case - and there's the end. Thank God. And John relaxes, because this would be the worst place to ambush them, less than 50 meters from freedom and with several large rocks to hide behind for cover.

John can see everyone else around relaxing just like him. Guards drop, guns droop, people smile and stop scanning the ravine-top. John's commanding officer, a captain like himself, is in the lead and turns around to look at the team. He yells for everyone to stay on guard, and John instinctively looks up the ravine, as if expecting Taliban to materialize due to the noise. But none do, the men look more alert again, and John is just beginning to think they'll live.

"Taliban!" Someone yells, and John doesn't wait to see if he's right before diving behind the nearest rock, medpack in hand. The sound of gunfire and metal striking stone was proof enough, though, that they were under attack. So much for not being ambished.

Soldiers are running everywhere, looking for cover as John crouches behind his rock, and it's a wonder no one has been hit yet. Even as John marvels at the thought, he sees someone yelp, drop to the ground clutching their leg, and start screaming. 

John pushes himself upright just a little more, ready to run for the man, and suddenly off to his right there's a dark-haired stranger in a nice two-piece black suit. The Ravenette, John realizes. John has seen him several times in the past three months, and each time it had been only him who could see, as if it were a hallucination, but somehow John wanted to believe this person was real. 

John called him the Ravenette because of his dark ebony hair, always wild with curls. He was tall, with alabaster skin and sharp cheekbones. It had taken John a while to admit he may actually be in love with the man, and the strange looks he'd give John. Sometimes the barest of true smiles, sometimes a frustrated, annoyed look, sometimes surprise, or an evil grin, like he knew something John didn't. But the looks that really killed John - how he knew he was in love with this man - were his looks of pain. John was no stranger to seeing pain on other's faces, but he'd learned to ignore it as best one could. But when this man looked at John with pure pain in his eyes, John would move heaven and earth to make it better.

That is the look on the Ravenette's face as he watches at John in the ravine. Pure pain, and it makes John want to rip whoever or whatever is causing it limb from bloody limb!

But he's brought back to reality with the screaming of the soldier, and John immediately casts the fantasy aside. He races out, bent nearly double, grabs the man's arms, and pulls him back behind the rock. John cuts away the fabric that is red, and sees it's a wound through the fleshy part of his leg. Not life-threating, but painful and the bullet didn't quite exit. He needs to remove it and patch it all up.

The Ravenette is suddenly leaning against the rock by the soldier's feet, looking intensely at John, the pain still in his eyes, but dimmed somewhat the by the intensity of his gaze. It's as if he knows something important and needs to tell it to John, needs to convey it somehow.

But the man never talks, never makes any meaningful gestures, so John tears his eyes away and goes about removing the bullet. He stabs a needle with morphine into the man's shoulder to ease the pain. When he looks back up the Ravenette is gone.

John ties the bandage tight, ignoring the screams as best he can. The morphine will kick in any moment now and then it would be fine; the wound's not life-threatning, though he wouldn't be walking any time soon. There's a hand on his back, pushing him into a safer position by the rock. John turns to see the commanding officer behind him.

"He going to be alright?" He shouts over the sounds of the gunfight, jerking his head at the man.

"Yeah, flesh wound." John yells back. It's an over-simplification, but effectively that's what it comes down to.

"Great. We need to get out of here before anyone else gets hit. If I grab him can you cover me?" The captain asks, eyes flicking up to search the ravine again.

John could cover him. He's a good enough shot to at least make the Taliban feel threatened. He doesn't what to, though. He doesn't like discharging his weapon. But he can't carry the wounded man all on his own. His CO could. "Yeah." John yells back, and the man pulls off his own rifle and hands it to John. 

John knows how to do this, he learned just like everyone else, and the muscle memory comes back to him immediately. Must be the adrenaline, he decides as he loops the strap over his shoulder and checks the chamber. He flicks the safety off and pushes himself into a ready crouch. One last glance at his CO, who's hold the wounded man in a fireman's carry, and John launches himself up. 

Bullets wiz by his head and he can hear them, he can practically feel them against his skin. He shoots at the opposing side, and sees several dark figures duck down below the edge as little explosions of dirt litter the wall right below them. He spins, and fires at the near wall of the ravine, more on target this time as at least one person is jerked back violently. John pretends he didn't see.

"Go! GO!" He yells at his CO, who leaps from the cover and races toward the end. John fires a little more then takes off after him. He's not the only one providing cover - there are three others who also stayed behind - and the four of them play a sort of deadly leap frog on their way out. 

John races for a new piece of cover, and slams into the rock hard. He fires up at the opposite wall of ravine, and turns to the right, face to face with a Taliban fighter. 

Clearly, neither was expecting the other to be there, like some bizarre cartoon, and John is the first to snap out of his surprised stupor. He yanks his knife out and stabs the Taliban in the gut. He doubles over in silent pain, and John slashes his throat. 

He jams his knife back in its sheath and turns toward the rest of the group. "They're coming down to us!" He yells at them, and can see some of them already knew it by the slumped forms at their feet and the red on their uniforms. 

"Keep moving!" Someone yells back to him, and John doesn't need to be told twice. He takes off for the next piece of cover, bullets whistling past him. His head feels as fragile as an eggshell, and he can practically feel the bullets brush by his skin. 

John slams against the rock and then turns to start firing at the walls of the ravine to provide cover for the next man. He sees several forms sliding down the dirt walls and turns to get a better angle on them. Suddenly his left shoulder jerks forward, throwing his aim, but he pulls the rifle back into the crook of his arm and keeps firing. 

A branch snaps to his right and John spins to see more Taliban approaching him from that direction. He starts firing, and takes down a few but they're on him before he can get them all. Someone pushes him back and his head slams into the rocky ground. His vision goes black and he can hear someone yell his name before he looses consciousness altogether.

John settles in the chair and the private wraps the plastic sheet around his shoulders. He does this about once every three months or so, because his hair grows that fast. It's an odd feeling, to have his head shaved, but he likes the change from long to short, and by the time it's grown again he's ready for it to be short.

"Head down, please." The private places a hand on the back of his head and tilts it down; John drops his chin to his collarbone and waits patiently. He hears the buzz of the razor and feels the familiar scrap and vibration as his hair is quickly cut off. 

"Chin up. please." The private asks again, and John lifts his chin, automatically straightening slightly in his seat. There's a mirror in front of him, and John expects to see himself with half a head of hair, but instead it's the Ravenette. He's looking back at John with the barest of smiles on his lips. He holds one hand above the bottom frame of the mirror as if to show John and he looks to see a lock of his own hair. He blinks, and when he looks again, John only sees himself. 

"All done, sir." The private says, pulling the plastic from around John's shoulders. John runs a hand over his newly-shaven head, just a centimeter or so of hair left. 

"Thanks." He says, and stands. 

 

John wakes slowly, drifting from the dream into reality. He would have much preferred to have stayed in the dream. His first sensation is simply pain, and he groans, trying to shift off his sore left shoulder. The floor under him is hard and creaks in protest.

"Easy, Doc. You've got a big hole in your shoulder." Someone says quietly, helping to focus John's attention. His brow furrows and he picks up his right hand to feel his shoulder, not quite up to opening his eyes yet. His hand feels heavier than it should, and only gets about half way to his shoulder before being stopped with a rattle. 

John forces his eyes open and sees a heavy chain trailing from the handcuff on his wrist over to the wall. Great. Dreaming about Mystery Man was definitely more fun than this, John thinks cynically.

"You alright, Doc? I don't know much about medicine, but that wound looks bad." Someone continues talking, and John drops his hand onto his chest. He twists looking up to his left, and sees the three other soldiers who'd stayed behind. All are restrained in some fashion, whether it's like John or some other method. And they all have injuries of their own.

One of them looks like he was also shot, somewhere in his abdomen. A second clearly has a broken arm. And all of them have numerous bruises swelling up on their face, hands, and ribs. John lets his head clunk to the ground, exhausted, and instantly regrets it. Pain swirls through his skull and he squeezes his eyes closed with a groan.

"Take it easy, Doc. You've got a really big egg." The man with just bruises is talking. John has to search for a moment before coming up with a name: McMath. The other two are Hinde and... Blackwood.

John slides his hand in between his head and the floor. McMath wasn't kidding when he said John had an egg. Shit.

"Where are we?" John asks, mindful to keep his voice down. 

"No clue. The last thing I remember was being stuck in the ravine and getting beat up by a bunch of Taliban." Hinde hisses. "Next thing I know, I've got a really painful broken arm and I'm getting dragged up and down a couple of mountains to this place."

John snorts in amusement. "Above ground, or below?"

"Above, I think. Unless going up stairs somehow ended us underground. In any case-" Hinde is interrupted by a shout from the guard. John lifts his head off the floor to see two guards standing just outside the doorway to the room. One of them is yelling in Pashto, the other walking toward Hinde.

"We said no talk!" The man growls when he reaches Hinde, and backhands him viciously. Hinde's head snaps around and he's knocked over. "Not hard order!" The man delivers a kick to Hinde's shoulder, jerking his broken arm around. To his credit, Hinde doesn't cry out.

The man watches Hinde for another moment, then decides the lesson was learned and walks away. Hind pushes himself into a sitting position slowly, aided by McMath. He's bleeding from a fresh cut in his mouth, and is shaking slightly, muscles clenched. John recognizes the symptoms of extreme pain.

"Hang in there, Hinde." John whispers, and Hinde cracks a crooked, red grin. John lays his head back down, not really up to sitting. It's not long before he drops of to sleep again.

 

This time he's back at camp. He ran into some old friends of his from the last unit he'd been attached to, and they were sharing old stories and pictures. Hinde was there, in his usual comical form, and he quickly has the group roaring. John's got some good stories of his own to tell, and the night passes quickly.

As the party's starting to wrap up, someone pulls out the old pictures, and they're passed around the group. Old friends who passed on are remembered, and the best moments recalled. 

"Remember when we stole your uniform and you couldn't find your jacket?" Someone asks John, and he does indeed.

"Yeah, the morning after I got promoted. It was up on the flagpole."

"Well, we had to announce to the whole of Afghanistan that Dr. John Watson had been promoted to captain. It was just that important." Everyone laughed, and someone handed John a photo. "Here it is."

John looked at himself. He had crazy tan lines and well-defined muscles. Afghanistan had a way of taking the fat off you, and muscle was a necessity when one carried thirty kilograms up and down mountains. He was wearing a tank top and cammo pants, and was complaining to someone about not finding his uniform. But he looked good. Happy. 

John smiled and looked up to return the picture. Just outside the circle, hiding in the shadows of one of the building was the Ravenette. He was watching impassively, almost... sadly? John had the sudden urge to go talk to him, and probably would have tried if someone hadn't found another picture to show him. The 'moment,' as it were, was gone, and John knew he wouldn't be there. But that was alright; he always returned. Always.

 

They spent about two days under the Taliban's "gentle" care before the status quo changed. John had managed to sit up, and had moved over to be next to the rest of his teammates. Food came once or twice a day; two bowls of rotten... John didn't even know what. But when one was starving, even that shit tasted good.

On the second day, a third man comes to join the two guards. He's flanked by two bodyguards of his own, and spends a long time talking to them. The three collectively are new faces to John. The man in charge is wearing what any Taliban soldier wears, a rag-tag mix of cammo and khaki and a scarf, but he looks neat, without a speck of sand or a wrinkle out of place. His hair is dark and neatly combed. He looks like he should belong, but his baring - in fact, everything about him - screams that he's out of place.

"Hey, Hinde." John whispers. "Can you hear what they're saying?" Hinde was great with any language and, if scuttlebutt was true, had learned Pashto in four months. John didn't know if that was true or not, only that he spoke it now and John wouldn't hesitate to use it, since the Taliban clearly didn't know.

Hinde closes his eyes, concentrating, but shakes his head. "Naw, they're mumbling too much. It all kind of mixes together in a jumble of spaghetti." Everyone smiles, and John can see Hinde take strength from that. Good for him.

The new man and his bodyguards walk in, not accompanied by the usual guards, though they turn as if to watch the show. John wonders what's going on.

The man looks them over for a moment, and then points to John. His two bodyguards walk over and grab John's arms, pulling him away from the wall toward the man. John growls quietly in pain as his shoulder is pulled on, but he doesn't say anything.

The guards set him down and the new man surveys him for for another moment before crouching down to eye-level.

"Let me be the first to congratulate you." He says with a clearly false smile.

"Congratulate me on what?" John spits back.

"On your promotion. To senior officer." The man says, pausing to take a breath. "We had an American major next door but he is now deceased."

Now deceased. John's blood runs cold at the thought of what that might mean. The cold and sinister look in the man's eyes only help increase his fears. But he'd be damned if he was going to let this man see that.

"You might have mentioned it earlier. Maybe I could have helped."

The man smiles again, this time out of genuine humor. "I'm sure a doctor would have been able to. But your not in too great of condition yourself, are you?" The man places a hand on John's left shoulder, thumb pressing into the bullet wound. John can't breath, and clenches his jaw as pain blossoms from the spot. It's so intense, and sustained; John's sure that's what dying feels like.

And then he lets go, and John gasps for breath and the pain diminishes back to a dull ache. 

"But thing's needn't be unpleasant." The man says, rubbing his hands together, and John watches as his blood was smeared around. "As senior POW, I trust you can give me what I want."

"You know, you speak really good English for Taliban." John snarks, not taking his eyes off the man's hands. There's something hypnotizing about seeing his own blood there.

The man laughs. "Thank you. There are advantages to studying at the University of London." John looks up in surprise. A Taliban soldier had studied in England?

The man laughs again at John's surprise, and nods amicably. "Yes, I studied in England. I was raised there in fact."

"What are you doing out here?" John asks.

"I... mmhhmm." The man mumbles, a fake grimace marking his face. "It's a complicated matter. In any case, we have more important things to talk about. I need a few simple facts from you, and then you and your friends can leave. Better than that, we'll drop you off at a hospital. There's a good one in Kabul I know of."

John snorts. "Like you're going to take us all the way to Kabul."

"Oh, I mean it." The man says, and he looks genuine. But John will bet any amount of money that's just another act. "One university man to another?"

"I'm not telling you anything." John states, and that was final, the tone of his voice making that clear.

The man sighs and places his hand on John's shoulder again. John stiffens, waiting for the intense pain again, but the man just rests his hand there, the pressure only increasing John's pain slightly. "Like I said, this needn't be unpleasant. All I want are troop and base locations, as last you saw. That's not difficult, is it? And they probably have changed already, haven't they?" The man presses down with his hand just a little harder, and John shifts uncomfortably.

"Not. Telling you. Anything." John enunciates clearly through gritted teeth. The man makes a face and John forces a laugh. Because if he doesn't laugh he'll start screaming.

The man finally, thankfully, moves his hand, and John gasps again. "I was really hoping this would be civil, Doctor. I don't want to hurt you."

"No amount of pain... is going to make me tell you what you what you want to know." John spits out, and he means it.

The man consideres him for a moment. "No, I suppose not." The man stands and walks away. His two bodyguards grab John again and drag him back to the wall by Blackwood.

The man turns suddenly and smiles at John. "I'll be back tomorrow, Doc, and we'll talk more then." And then he's gone, and everything's back to normal. John slumps against the wall, pain and exhaustion taking it's toll.

"Who do you think that was?" McMath asks. 

"No clue." John says with a sigh. "And I'm not in any rush to find out, either."

"He mumbles his Pashto." Hinde mutters, picking at a scab on his arm. John doesn't have the energy to tell him to stop. 

"So?" McMath responds. "This isn't Pashto class."

"Yeah, but the army didn't teach him. If they had, he would never have gotten away with a bad habit like mumbling." Hinde explains. It makes sense, and it's a good point. But right now John doesn't have the energy to figure out what it all means. Before long, he's drifting off to sleep.

 

John doesn't know were he is. It's like he's in a box, but with no legs, and he's looking out on... what? A sitting room? Or an art studio? John can just see what looks like a kitchen hiding behind numerous canvases and easels. Someone's in the kitchen, filling a jar with water. He turns and John sees it's the Ravenette. John smiles and closes one eye in a wink, and then he can't move. At all.

The Ravenette walks back over and sits down in front of John. He looks up at him for the first time and jumps, then frowns. Then looks away and John can move again. He holds his hands out in front of him and they look... different. Like someone took a paint brush to his skin. The Ravenette looks back at him and jumps even higher this time.

He closes his eyes, as if afraid he's hallucinating, and John smiles and braces his hands of the edge of the box, leaning forward slightly. The Ravenette opens his eyes, and the look of shock on his face is priceless. He reaches up to touch John's face, hair, traces his fingers down his chest and side. John has to admit, that feels really good, and as the Ravenette looks back up at him he smirks. 

The Ravenette looks embarrassed for a moment and looks like he's going to pull back, but John does something he's been wanting to do for awhile now. He wraps his right hand around the Ravenette's neck and kisses him. He stiffens in surprise at first, and then pushes into the contact. John can feel warm fingers and cold paintbrushes tracing up against his back. 

John hesitantly traces his tongue over the Ravenette's lip and his mouth opens immediately. John wastes no time slipping his tongue inside and groaning with pleasure. 

But suddenly there's something pulling on him, trying to pull him back into the box or whatever it is, and John strains back. Can't they see he's busy? Why won't they leave him alone. Blackwood is calling his name, and Hinde is yelling something. Sherlock pulls back looking irritated and John thinks it's about him and wants to apologize but then Hinde yells in pain and life becomes oddly tunnel-vision and there's pain in John's shoulder and reality come screaming back in a rush.

John's thrown up against a wall, away from Blackwood and McMath. Blackwood has a new bruise blooming on his face. Hinde is in the middle of the room, held down by the English guy's two bodyguards. He's got a new cut on his face, just to the side of one eye socket, and John can tell he's in a lot of pain. The Englishman is walking around, twirling a wicked-looking knife in one hand, the blade dripping red.

"Now, Doc. Do you still with to play this most dangerous game?" The man smiles, and waves the knife with grandiose. "Normally I don't get my hands dirty with this type of thing, but you are going to be a... what's the expression? A tough nut to crack. So if all the king's horses and all the king's men won't be able to do it, let's just skip right to the king, shall we?"


	3. The Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft knows Sherlock hates him, but he will do anything for his little brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, bit of a short (medium) chapter today. I don't even know. It's more than three thousand words; that's good enough for me. I've decided school's not so bad since I spent most of one class writing this just today, so it's not Bata'd or Brit-picked and I'm sure my grammar is atrocious, so I want to apologize and I'm sure you know where to go by now. I tried to use the British words I knew, and metric versus English, but I'm sure I missed something.  
> Also, tiny, tiny, tiny bit of Mystrade if you go looking for it. I think I've found another OTP. Might write more of them. I don't know. I never used to ship them... Then again, I never shipped John and Sherlock and then I met this fandom, so...  
> Thanks and enjoy!

Mycroft runs his hands over his face. He's exhausted, more so than normal. Germany was unhappy about some foreign investment gone wrong, and Germans could get very angry when they wanted to be. And Sherlock was more taxing then normal. Mycroft had only just realized his obsession, his insomnia, the damage it had all done. Germany Mycroft could deal with, Sherlock was much harder.

Mycroft's cell phone rang, and he answers it immediately. It was from the lead man he has watching Sherlock. 

"You said you wanted to be notified when he started playing the violin, sir. Well, he just started."

"Do you recognize the music?" Mycroft asked. The man was an ex-symphony performer and knew nearly every piece of music ever written for violin.

"No. Not even remotely."

Mycroft sighed. He's not sure if this is good or bad for Sherlock. "What does it sound like? Use an emotion."

"Sad." The man answers immediately. "Lots of flats and off-key cords. It sounds very... haunting and melancholy."

"Keep watching. Notify me if anything changes." Mycroft hangs up and sets the phone gently on his desk. That was most certainly not good.

After Sherlock's breakdown, Inspector Lestrade had informed Mycroft of Sherlock's condition. They had met the first time Sherlock had been arrested for possession, and Mycroft knew he could trust Lestrade. He had asked the Inspector to take Sherlock to a special mental hospital. Mycroft had called them to inform them he was coming, than driven to Sherlock's flat.

He'd seen the portrait Sherlock had done, and had meticulously searched the flat, making very sure to replace everything exactly as it had been so Sherlock would be less likely to notice. He had found the locked draw quickly, and had picked it as expertly as his younger brother would have been able to. It was not lost on him that the top watercolors were the same person in the portrait. 

From the sketches, Mycroft had determined that the object of the portrait was in the military, apparently deployed to Afghanistan. And apparently Sherlock had an unhealthy obsession with this man. They'd never met - Mycroft was sure - and Sherlock always sat down and started sketching when he couldn't sleep. Or had had a nightmare? 

Mycroft had set a picture of the portrait to Anthea and told her to find this person in reality. It was a long shot, he knew, and completely impossible, but he was willing to take a leap of faith right now if it meant it would get Sherlock out of the hospital.

And he was. Sherlock had been discharged three days ago, after a four-day stay. The doctors had wanted to keep him longer, but since they were getting nowhere with him, there seemed little point. And Mycroft knew a hospital was not a long-term solution, merely an immediate checkpoint to make sure Sherlock was in no immediate physical danger. 

Mycroft had no clue what Sherlock had seen that had caused him to have such a violent breakdown, and the only words Sherlock would say on the matter were "He's gone. I'm fine." 

Mycroft's computer beeps at him: new mail. It's probably the Germans again. Mycroft takes a deep breath and is surprised to find he's actually looking forward to the German problem. At least that he could solve, and relatively easy. 

Before he gets very far in, someone knocks on his door and Anthea comes in. She handles the most personal things Mycroft has to deal with; there are very few people he would trust more. She looks somewhat sad, and carries a manilla folder in her hand. 

"Is it quick, Anthea?" Mycroft asks, no preamble necessary. "Because the Germans are complaining again."

"I don't know, sir." She replied steadily. "The person you asked me to find..." She pauses, and Mycroft assumes she's talking about the portrait. There probably wasn't a match, like he expected. "I found him."

 

Sherlock sets down the violin and picks up the special duffle he has for his paint supples. It's already packed with all the watercolor paintings and all the supplies he'll need. He turns out the light in the sitting room and walks over to his room. He flicks the light on, grabs his coat, and climbs the stairs up to 221C. The window there faced the back, and from Sherlock's observations Mycroft didn't have anyone over there.

He needs to get away from everyone, spend some time to himself and finish this. He keeps the lights off as he slips through the door and cracks the window. He scans the area, but doesn't see anyone that would be working for Mycroft. His brother didn't know, but he had a "type," and Sherlock felt no shame using that against him. He didn't need Mycroft's so-called "help" anyway.

He steps up onto the windowsill, crouching to not hit his head, and shuts the window behind him. He jumps from the sill down onto the rooftop next to the building. He pauses and waits, but nothing stirs. 

 

"Who is he?" Mycroft asks, ready to drop everything and personally go find this man and drag him back to Sherlock if necessary. But Anthea's look of unease increases at the question.

"His name is Captain John Watson. He's a doctor in the army, and he just went missing in action in Afghanistan a week ago. No one has seen hide nor hair of him since then." She pauses before continuing, her steady voice cracking slightly. "I'm sorry, sir. I know... who he is but no one knows where he is."

Mycroft leans back in his chair, releasing the breath he didn't know he was holding. How could Sherlock have known the man was a Captain? It wasn't in the pictures. And missing. The man was missing. Anything but the uncertainty, and Mycroft would have told Sherlock. But this- this not knowing - would be worse than before. 

Mycroft's phone goes off again, dragging him back to reality. He dismisses Anthea and answers it. It's from the team on Sherlock again.

"He stopped playing the violin and turned all the lights out. We believe right now he's in his room. We're not picking up any noise so we assume he's sleeping."

"Good. Keep watching." Mycroft tells him again and hangs up. Sleeping would be good, though what motivated Sherlock to do that was beyond him. He can never get Sherlock to sleep, and it was early yet, for his brother.

"Good-night, Sherlock." Mycroft mutters, leaning his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. "Sweet dreams."

 

Sherlock stands and starts running across the rooftops of London. There's just enough starlight to barely see, but Sherlock could do this with his eyes closed if he really wanted. Every step, blind.

It takes an hour of hard running to get where he's going; a friend's painting store. Sherlock knows they will still be open this hour. Sherlock and this "friend" met when Sherlock still took drugs, and tonight would be a regular handout.

He drops down from the roofs in an alleyway, using balconies and old fire escapes. The front door of the store will be locked, but the back is always open on a handout night. Sherlock makes his way there, and opens the door.

There's no one in the back of the storage, so at least he's not stupid. Sherlock closes the door and waits patiently for his friend to show. He's a relatively low-level dealer, but it would be his third bust if he were caught, and that means major time. Sherlock quirks a smile. 

Someone comes around the corner, and Sherlock recognizes his friend immediately. He's lost some weight, but looks healthy otherwise. So he recently started using what he sells. No, he drinks. At least he's not drunk now, Sherlock decides. 

"Sherlock! Good to see you! Tell me, mate, what can I do for you tonight, eh?" He smiles and raises his eyebrows suggestively. 

"I'm not here for drugs." Sherlock states plainly. "I need 1.5 by 1 meters of canvas, and enough frame. Now."

The man laughs. "Sure. It'll cost you 100 pounds, though."

"It will cost me nothing." Sherlock responds cooly. His friend just laughs, but Sherlock's serious. "It will cost me nothing whether I get it now or remove it from a crime scene when the police are busy with a drugs bust."

His friend's face pales slightly. "You call the police and I'll tell them about you."

"The man I would call already knows about my prior drug habits, which is beside the point because I am currently clean. I don't even smoke. Now. Give me what I want or I think you will live to regret it for a very long time." 

Sherlock leaves ten minutes later with everything he needs. The canvas is rolled around the wood for the frame and tucked in a sleeve. Sherlock follows the backstreets and alleyways to the motel of a friend who owes him a favor. He's able to get a room for as long as he needs it. Sherlock has no clue how long that will be. But in this part of town, Mycroft is unlikely to find him unless he goes knocking on doors.

Sherlock drops everything on the bed and starts to build the wood frame. He's done this a thousand times before, and size doesn't matter. He uses the doorframe to make everything square, and staples the wood together. He works to stretch the canvas over the frame and staples it on. When he's done, the sun is already up. Sherlock flicks the curtains closed, locks the door, pushes the painting supplies to one side of the bed, and collapses on it. He's completely spent, and needs to wait for the canvas to settle anyway. So he may as well get some sleep while he can.

 

Mycroft wakes up the next morning to a phone call from Lestrade. It would have been a good way to start the morning if the inspector hadn't been calling to tell him no one can find Sherlock. He wasn't at his flat, and the men Mycroft had watching hadn't seen anything. Lestrade had been looking for him to see a crime scene, and when he hadn't responded to texts or phone calls he had gone looking for him.

Mycroft spends the first part of his morning trying to juggle looking for his little brother and dealing with the Germans. Only he would be able to do both successfully, or at least somewhat. While the situation with the Germans was finally resolved, Sherlock remained unfound. 

About ten o'clock, Mycroft's been working for four hours straight, and shows no signs of stopping. Something else came up, as it always does, preventing him from focusing on Sherlock's situation. Lestrade had found nothing, and the teams Mycroft had sent out, while competent, were not match for Sherlock's intellect. They won't find anything.

Mycroft runs his hands over his face and resignedly goes back to work. His little brother would of course turn up with time, but Mycroft believes Sherlock's in search of drugs, and probably in great danger of overdosing. Mycroft would never admit it to anyone, but the thought of losing Sherlock truly terrifies him, down to his bones.

The intercom buzzes and his secretary's voice filters through. "Sir, a man from the American Embassy here to see you. He says it's urgent. Your assistant is here with him." His "assistant" is of course Anthea, and she was clearly implying that Mycroft needs to speak with the American. 

"Send them in." Mycroft responds tiredly, then clears his throat and stands, smoothing his suit. An amicable look is plastered on his face, and he refuses to allow his woes and worries to show at all.

The American is tall, almost as tall as Mycroft, and dressed in military fatigues, not a more formal uniform. So a rush meeting then. He's a commander, and Mycroft knows he has seen the man before. His demeanor and uniform says "marine" and "special operation," which is most likely advanced American naval intelligence, or he is a member of Force Recon. 

"Mr. Holmes. Commander Matthew Hulken, sir. I'm currently stationed at the U.S. Embassy." The man doesn't salute, but straightens even more than he already was and shakes Mycroft's proffered hand. He glances back at Anthea before continuing. "Your assistant said you were busy, so I'll get straight to the point. The pictures you posted on Interpol of the missing soldiers, I think I might know something about them. I called the number and your assistant answered. She said you'd need to talk to me."

Mycroft smiled slightly and gestures for the man to sit down at a nearby table. While his back is turned, Mycroft shoots a look to Anthea, who nods her understanding of his confusion. Then they go to join the Commander. 

"I know you're busy sir, so let me bring you up to date." Anthea says quickly, looking at Mycroft. "Commander Hulken is talking about Captain John Watson and the three other soldiers who went missing with him. I finally was able to post their pictures with Interpol's missing person's list. The Commander can tell you the rest." She stops and looks at Hulken. He glances at Mycroft, who nods, before continuing.

"I'm just back from a tour in Afghanistan. While there, the commanding officer of my platoon, a major, was kidnapped by Taliban, but not your usual brand. We caught some of them during the kidnapping, and they claimed to be working for some Englishman who was paying them an obscene amount of money and helping them smuggle bombers into America. We caught the bombers, just where our intel said they'd be, so it seems the terrorists might actually be telling the truth."

"Do you know the name of the Englishman?" Mycroft asks, fishing for information even though it was irrelevant to the point at hand. It's an old trick, but not one the Commander will fall for, based on the smile he gives Mycroft. The man is either very clever, or intelligence-trained. Probably both, Mycroft decides.

"We tracked that cell to the Korengal mountains and managed to capture most of it. They claim that before they left the Englishman's hideout, they had four new, British prisoners. The faces on Interpol look a lot like what they described." Commander Hulken ignores Mycroft's question and finishes his briefing. Mycroft wonders how hight he had to go to get approval for this meeting, and if it was even him who recognized the pictures. In any case, the Americans have no reason to lie in matters like this and Mycroft will take the information at face value and then work furiously to prove or disprove it.

"Is that all?" Mycroft asks, still milking the man for every drop he can get. Surprisingly, Commander Hulken gives another sly smile.

"No. I have permission to invite you to the American Embassy at 8:00, local time. Something's happening that I think you'll want to see." The man stands, and Mycroft quickly joins him. Hulken looks tired and tense: under a lot of stress. Calm confidence playing these games: intelligence training. Intelligent mind, Marine training would lead to strong tactical emphasis: tactical planer, "pulls the strings." Eight o'clock tonight would be eleven-thirty in Kabul. A tactical planer under stress for something happening tonight would be planning a raid. I'm invited, so it's on the Englishman. 

Mycroft holds out his hand again, and the Commander takes it. "Thank you, Commander Hulken. I will be there." Mycroft tells him. The Commander nods and leaves.

Mycroft waits a moment, then turns to Anthea, still seated at the table. "I did not tell you to post those men's names on Interpol."

"I thought it was worth a try, just in case. And it clearly paned out, sir." She defends. 

Mycroft doesn't say anything, merely gestures for her to leave. She gets up and exits the room without another word. The slight tremor in her hands as she opens the door tells Mycroft she's worried about losing her job. Let her worry, Mycroft thinks. She broke protocol, she didn't ask him before posting Captain Watson's name. In hind sight, it had turned out very well, and Mycroft knew she would now remove the pictures since they had what they wanted. But she hadn't asked because had she, Mycroft would have said no. And she didn't think that was the correct answer. Tricky, Anthea. Mycroft decided to keep an eye on her.

His mobile rang again, and one glance at the caller id told Mycroft he'd have to answer it. "Yes, Lestrade?"

"Mr. Holmes. There was a drug's bust of an art store, down in a bad part of London. The distributor owns the store, and traded some information for reduced time." Lestrade paused, and Mycroft waited patiently. Lestrade was a good man; if he called it was for a good reason. "He says an old friend of his, name of Sherlock, had dropped by and blackmailed him for a, in his words, 'a ridiculous amount of canvas.' He says Sherlock said he was clean, but the man said he was 'acting strange.' Now, if your talking to a distributor who's probably never seen Sherlock clean-"

"-His strange would be our normal." Mycroft finished. "Yes, thank you Lestrade. Is canvas all he purchased?"

"Yeah. But get this." Mycroft heard the shuffle of papers as if Lestrade was looking for a file. "He bought 1.5 by 1 meters of it. All one sheet. Why would he need so much?"

Mycroft took a breath. "I don't know. Thank you for your help, Lestrade. Please keep looking."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." And the two hung up. 1.5 by 1 meter of canvas was enough to paint a complete life-size portrait of a person, Mycroft thought. Why, though? Why was Sherlock so obsessed by Captain John Watson? What was so important about him? He'd never met the man, why was he dreaming of him? 

Was he dreaming of him, Mycroft suddenly wondered. Or was he dreaming of someone who simply looked like him? Mycroft didn't know Sherlock's sexual orientation, only that he thought any form of relationship a complete waste of time. But what if the isolation was getting to him? What if Sherlock was dreaming of "the one?" 

Mycroft knew his little brother wasn't very disciplined, much as he appeared the contrary. It was merely a mental disorder that allowed him to stay above sentiment. What if something had penetrated that armor? What if Sherlock wanted to love someone, who he was dreaming about, and it was driving him insane? If that were the case, Mycroft was going about this all wrong. He didn't need to find this man, this army captain, merely someone who looked like him who'd be willing to stay with Sherlock. How hard could that be?

 

Sherlock spends the afternoon spreading gesso on the canvas. It's a long and dull process. Simply cover, wait, cover, wait. Boring boring boring. 

The fun comes after. The fun is painting, letting his mind run wild. He can paint whatever he wants, let the observations and ideas in his head get out. It's fun, and it feels so good to have a release. His only release.

By the time it's finally done, Sherlock has decided what he wants to do. He's going to pour his heart - his very soul! - into this. And when his Captain wakes up, he'll be able to come out and no one will be there to stop him or interrupt him. It'll be perfect. It'll be absolutely perfect.


	4. Steps toward Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting out of trouble is apparently easier than getting in, especially when someone else does all the work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have been reading this, and especially to the lovely Sue for all her advice and encouragement. Thank you so much!  
> Second, sorry for the late upload, I'm going to blame school. Because, lo and behold, teachers decided to teach! What is this world coming to?  
> In any case, I hope you enjoy!

John presses his hands against the wound harder in an attempt to stop the bleeding. It was a deep cut, but didn't appear to have caused any major internal injuries. At least he wouldn't die of internal bleeding. Just infection, or blood loss, or-

A hand on his shoulder drags John out of his worries. Blackwood sits next to him, a sympathetic look on his face. "It's not your fault. You don't have a choice."

John sighs and looks back at Hinde. The Englishman was wicked with that knife of his, and John knew some of the cuts would leave nasty scars. But it was his fault. It was his fault he couldn't say anything to make it stop-

"I was serious." Blackwood said a little more forceful. "You don't have a choice. You can't give him what he wants."

"And what happens when he gets tired of this and just shoots Hinde?" John hisses back, not caring about the venom in his voice. The Englishman had been warning of that the whole time. 

Blackwood shakes his head. "You can't tell him anything."

John checks one of the cuts on Hinde's face and is relieved to find that it's finally stopped bleeding. It still felt like it was his fault, but Blackwood had a point. 

Hinde's still sleeping. A combination of exhaustion, blood loss, too much pain, and the emotional drain of being tortured probably all led to it. John checks the deep wound again, and the blood flow is slowing to a more manageable level. Hopefully it will stop altogether soon.

The Englishman had found probably John's biggest weakness: pain in others. Had it been John on the ground, with all these cuts, it would be fine. John knew he wouldn't question anything. But it's Hinde on the ground; Hinde who's bleeding. And it's John's fault. And he needs to stop it if he can, but he can't. Because what the Englishman wants, John knows but can't tell. So it's Hinde who's got a good chance of dying. Hinde who won't go home. 

Shit. The blood seems to rush to John's head, and he's suddenly aware of just how painfully his shoulder is throbbing. A wave of nausea sweeps over him and John collapses against the nearby wall. Blackwood's still by his side, as if offering moral support, and John lets him, doesn't care that he's crying and doesn't care who sees. 

Blackwood pulls him into an embrace, comforts him until the tears are gone. When John pulls back, it's as if he just cried his demons away. They're still there, he can feel them, but he can withstand anything the Englishman throws at him now. 

But there's something knew, also. This isn't his fault - as much as he may hate himself for it. This is the Englishman's fault. And for every bit that John hates himself, he hates the Englishman equally much. And it's that feeling, that raw and unbridled hate that his rational mind isn't trying to talk him out of, that his strength comes from. He doesn't know why that works, only that it does. And that's fine with him.

John nods at Blackwood, who nods back in unspoken understanding that everything was... not fine, not even close, but somehow better. John was just glad the Englishman hadn't seem him cry. 

And then, bare seconds after he had the thought, the Englishman appears. He has a big grin on his face, and claps his hands together and rubs them. "So! Doc. Considered my offer any more? About a hospital in Kabul and all that?" He waves a hand vaguely and his eyes drift over Hinde's still form. "Because some of you look like you could use one."

"Who are you?" John suddenly snaps. He's not sure why, he just wants to know.

The man appears surprised also, head snapping back to look at John, his gaze intense. John can practically see the wheals turning in his head. And then he laughs in that carefree manner that he'd developed. John suspected that was his natural demeanor, that the seriousness from their first encounter had been an act. 

"Oh, Doc, Doctor. Should I call you the Doctor?" He asks, with a smile and laugh. He shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to meander the room, looking that the walls, the celling, anything but John. "You don't need to know that."

"Tell me." John says, and there's a new strength in his voice. "Who are you?" 

"And after I tell you my name, I suppose you'll want to know where we are, and what I'm going to do with the information you give me- actually, the last question might actually be reasonable." The man rambles, moving his hands in tiny gestures in front of him. He still doesn't look John in the eye.

"What are you going to do with the information?" John asks.

The man laughs, and looks up at the celling. "Not until you give it to me, Doc."

"So who are you?" John repeats, and suddenly the man is leaning over him, staring into his eyes. He's so close, John's breathing borrowed air.

"Why is it so important to you? Are you just stalling? Do you know something, or think you know something about me? Trying to confirm a theory? Are you more than you seem, Doctor? Holding out on me?" His voice is deathly low and intense. His eyes search John's face and eyes, looking for answers, but John has none to give.

The man rocks back on his heals, and continues to contemplate John. "You know," He finally remarks after what feels like hours, "I thought this was going to be boring: dull and tedious. You and your boring ideals and your little mind. But you, John Watson, are infinitely more fascinating than I expected. You will warrant further study-"

The man is cut off by the sound of gunfire above them, and everyone looks up instinctively. There's yelling and the sound of boots on the celling. The man frowns, glances down at John and then looks up at him. He stays that way, thinking most like, before surging into action.

John doesn't see him move, but suddenly he's leaning over him again, lips pressed to John's ear. "I'll find you, Doc. Don't you doubt it. I'll come and find you, because you are not boring." And then pushes away from John and sweeps out of the room, leaving John heaving, scared, and, honestly, with more than a little hate. He slowly turns to look at Blackwood and McMath, who clearly have no more clue than he does as to what happened.

There's the sound of a door bursting open bellow them, and more gunfire, and John hopes, he really hopes, that whoever is invading is friendly. 

"We've got to get out of here." McMath finally says, voicing all their thoughts. There's no longer guards outside the door, but everyone was still chained to the walls.

"Unless you've been holding out on us and can pick a lock, we're kind of stuck." Hinde says, and everyone looks at him. He's still laying on the ground, eyes closed; it was easy to mistake him for still being asleep.

John can hear the floor creaking in the hallway just their room, and looks around in a vain attempt to find something they could use to defend themselves if necessary. But there's nothing there, there has never been, and the first of the unknown attackers walks through the door. 

He's dressed in black, with a vest, helmet, and night-vision goggles. He's carrying a fully automatic rifle, and the four POWs freeze, eyes locked on the man. Two more enter behind him as he moves forward, and spread out to each side.

The man in front slowly lowers his weapon and snaps up the night-vision goggles. "Captain Watson?" He asks, his accent clearly American. John nods shakily, still not sure if he can trust them. "We're with the US military. We're here to get you all out."

 

Mycroft had told Commander Hulken he would be at the American Embassy at eight o'clock. The fact that finding Captain Watson had become a moot point didn't matter. Mycroft still needs to be there. And so three minutes to eight, Mycroft's car pulls up in front of the Embassy. Hulken's waiting on the steps, just on the other side of the maze of concrete barriers set up to protect the building.

Mycroft exits the car and sends it away. It will be back when he needs it. Anthea's not with him, neither is his usual aid. If he were a betting man, Mycroft would stake everything that this is for his-eyes-only. It's a great leap of faith by the Americans, who had become somewhat distant from their allies. That's why Mycroft is there; Captain Watson doesn't matter anymore.

"Mr. Holmes." Commander Hulken greets him as he approaches the door. "It's a pleasure to see you again. If you'll come with me?" He steps aside and gestures for Mycroft to enter the Embassy. He climbs the steps to the door and walks through. Inside, the Embassy is nearly empty, only a few Marine guards making their way probably to supper. They watch Mycroft warily as he pauses in the lobby, waiting for Hulken. 

"Follow me, please." Hulken passes him and leads Mycroft into the maze that is the US Embassy. Mycroft has seen the plans for it, but the Americans seem to have made a few changes of their own. Hulken leads him down a set of stairs and into a dark room full of computers and TV screens. The TV screens adorn one wall, and show satellite images of two helicopters and live video from a camera mounted on someone's helmet. People sit in front of the computers, not looking up, the screens illuminating their faces in an unearthly glow.

Hulken and Mycroft stand at the back of the room, waiting for something. It's not a long wait before the men arrive and storm the building. They dispatch the Taliban with merciless efficiency, and find the POWs quickly. A camera on the lead soldier's uniform show's Mycroft a somewhat pitiful picture of four men, one incapable of sitting up, one leaning heavily on the wall, one clearly worried if not scared, and one looking like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. He had been looking for a weapon, Mycroft realizes. Despite the fact he has a serious shoulder wound. 

His blonde hair and tan skin identifies him as Captain Watson, and the American behind the camera agrees, stating his name as a question. The man gives the barest of nods and the American identifies himself. All four of the British soldiers relax visibly. 

The Americans make short work of stabilizing the POWs and them. The one who was lying on the ground is now carried on a stretcher. The one who had been leaning on the wall so heavily has a abdominal wound and also warrants a stretcher. Captain Watson and the other soldier aren't so lucky, and are half-escorted, half-supported down the hallway to the stairs. 

They start down, and the first three get past them to the door, Watson being last. He and his escort make it halfway down before there's the sound of more gunfire and his escort plunges forward down the stairs, dragging Watson with him. They role down together, to the sound of more gunfire, and then silence. 

The man with the camera is the first to get to Watson, but he's unconscious, probably from the pain, Mycroft decides. So the American picks him up and carries him to the helicopter. Simple as that. Everyone boards and then they leave. The whole operation was over in less than fifteen minutes, the only thing left behind a collection of bodies. And not, Mycroft notes, still watching the screen, the American one.

Hulken turns to Mycroft with a wry smile on his face. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft considers his response before answering. "Well done." Is the only praise he gives before moving on to business. "I trust the British soldiers will be returned to a British hospital?"

Hulken snorts in obvious amusement before answering. "As soon as they're stable."

Mycroft nods, finding that equitable, and Commander Hulken escorts him out of the Embassy.

 

An half-an-hour later, he's back in his office. It's later than he'd thought and most people are home by now. Mycroft sits at the head of the conference table in his office, a single glass of scotch next to him. It helps him think.

What the Americans had shown him was... interesting. There had been no sign of a mysterious "Englishman" on the helicopter ride away from the compound, so Mycroft can only assume the Americans did not catch their primary target. A pity. Mycroft's men still weren't sure exactly who this man was and why the Americans were so afraid of him, but the answer would present itself soon, Mycroft is sure. In questions of this kind, they always did.

More interesting was the brief study of Captain Watson Mycroft had been able to conduct. Watson did not look "broken," as it were; the Englishman had not gotten the information he wanted out of him. But the fact that the Englishman had chosen to torture a mere Corporal, and not the Captain, spoke a great deal about Watson. That he was a good doctor, to be sure. But more than that, Mycroft knew. To understand fully, it would require further study.

And perhaps that's what Sherlock found so interesting about this man. That he was simply so different from really anyone in the Holmes family. But Sherlock had no way of knowing this man, and yet he appeared to intimately. After finally seeing Watson through live, if grainy, footage Mycroft realized just how well his brother had captured Watson's very essence in that painting of his.

A knock on his door brings Mycroft out of his reverie, and he turns to see Anthea walk in. "Sir." She says, more of a question than a statement. 

"Yes, come in." Mycroft sighs, gesturing her through the door. "What is it?"

"We found Sherlock Holmes, sir." Anthea says evenly. She never called him "your brother" or just "Sherlock." Professionalism is everything, especially when one's job might be threatened.

At her news, Mycroft can feel some of the tension drain from his shoulders. By the look on her face, it's obvious Sherlock was not hurt and is in no serious dangers. "Tell me."

"He's staying at a cheep motel in a rougher part of London. From what the teams can gather, and granted it's not much, he's just painting. The biggest issue they have noticed thus far is that he hasn't left for food, but it's very likely he brought some with him so he wouldn't have to leave for it." Anthea sets the folder down on the table next to the scotch. "I will alert you should his condition change." She finishes and leaves the room. It was obvious to Mycroft she's still worried she'll lose her job. 

Mycroft doesn't pick up the folder, confident her report will have been thorough. He takes a deep breath. Painting. Painting his Captain, obviously. A full size portrait. How ambitious of his little brother. Mycroft choses to let it go. Sherlock is an adult after all, as much as he doesn't always act like one, and is being watched far more thoroughly than before. If in three days they have no concrete proof of his health, they will break down the door and get it.

And that will be the end of it.

 

Sherlock sits on the bed leaning up against the headboard. Directly across the room is the background. After three coats of gesso, Sherlock had spent four hours doing the background. It's not at all like the abstract browns and greens of the small portrait. This is a landscape. This is Afghanistan. Tan sand, clear blue sky, sharp shadows from the noon-time sun. 

This is the Captain's home. Here he's in his element. Sherlock can picture what the final product will look like: stunning, powerful, breath-taking. His beautiful Captain, all heart and soul, strong and brave and calmly confident against Afghanistan's brutality. What were field doctors called? Battlefield angels? The term certainly fit; Sherlock had decided - not unbiasedly - that they were the bravest members of a unit. It was as if they were trying to get shot. And his Captain was one of them.

It takes Sherlock a minute to process his stream-of-consiousness thought. When he does, it sounds utterly ridiculous, and he knows it, but somehow he can't bring himself to care. And that's the strangest part; it's clearly a complete display of sentiment, something he is not even capable of.

And yet here he is. He ran away from home and threatened a drug dealer and probably caused his brother to have a heart attack, all to paint a portrait of his Captain. And now, he's sitting here, making a complete fool out of himself in his thoughts. Why?

Sherlock can't answer that question, and decides he doesn't care. He's here, and he wants to do this, and that's the end of it.


	5. To Have and To Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock and John finally meet, it's not quite like they expected. And for once in his life, Mycroft has no idea what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for so long a break! But it's here now, so... Hopefully it was worth waiting for. As always, not Brit-picked, but it is now somewhat Bata-ed, so there should be less mistakes. All comments and criticism is, of course, welcome.  
> The rating was probably unnecessarily upped for this chapter, but better safe than sorry.  
> Thanks!

Sherlock has been in that room for days, a week, maybe. He doesn't have a clue, which is unusual for him. He's been so absorbed in his work, he's barely slept and hasn't eaten since running away. He knows his blood sugar is probably dangerously low, and that the only way he's still standing is by adrenaline alone. Adrenaline, excitement, anticipation, all for seeing his Captain again.

The portrait is perfect. He's sitting on the end of the bed looking at it, has been for an hour, and he has yet to find any flaws. The Captain is standing in the middle of the desert, dressed in cammo pants and combat boots. He's wearing a light brown t-shirt and an open military cammo jacket, the bright red cross standing out against the muted browns. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck and is covered in dust as if just returning from a mission. 

The only problem is he hasn't come alive yet. Last time, it had happened even before the paint dried as far a Sherlock knows. But he's been waiting, watching, for an hour and nothing has happened yet. Just the smallest traces of fear and doubt are beginning to creep into his mind when the answer hits him.

The last time the painting came alive, Sherlock had not been watching. Maybe the Captain has stage fright. But there isn't anywhere Sherlock can go to get away from the painting. The bathroom, maybe, but Sherlock doesn't fancy staying there for any amount of time.

He gets up and changes his water, like he had the last time, but no change ensues. Unless... Sherlock's heart beats a little faster, something is out of place. But no, it's just a mistake on his part. How had he missed that? It's a few brushstrokes that don't belong.

Sherlock unwraps his palette and dips a brush in the reds. When he's satisfied, he turns back to the painting with the intention of fixing the armband but it's not there. Sherlock draws back and looks at the whole painting. The Captain has shifted position, turning so one side of his body is away from Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks in surprise - that was fast - and takes several steps back from the painting, brushes in hand but forgotten. He waits with bated breath for the Captain to come alive.

The soldier shifts again and groans. He brings one hand up to his head, another to his left shoulder. His fingers against his shoulder seem to be searching for something, and his eyes open in surprise when he doesn't find it.

He looks out of the painting in confusion, bracing his hands on either side of the frame. His eyes finally come to rest on Sherlock, and the brunet can't breath.

"You." The man says, a slight smile crossing his face. He looks down at his feet and picks up one leg, moving it to cross the plane. He sets it down on the floor of the hotel room and extends a hand for balance. Sherlock reaches out and grabs it with his own, and the Captain looks up in surprise, leaning on him heavily. 

He lets go of the frame altogether and braces his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder. It's as if he's afraid the hotel room floor won't hold him. He picks up his other foot and moves it forward, setting it next to his first. He pauses a moment, as if waiting for the floor to collapse. Sherlock stands frozen, to scared that moving at all will break the moment. The Captain's skin doesn't feel like normal skin, more like wood sanded smooth but not varnished, but Sherlock can feel muscles moving and flexing under the Captain's skin. His clothes feel stiff but like normal fabrics. 

The Captain finally takes his eyes off his feet and slowly looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock can see fear, confusion, want, and a few other emotions cross his face. Sherlock doesn't want to scare him off, so he moves to let go and move back, but the Captain tightens his grip on him.

"Don't." He whispers, breath hot on Sherlock's neck. He presses his body close against Sherlock's, who heart is moving at a thousand meters per second. He runs his fingers up Sherlock's body to his neck, cupping his face, thumbs brushing cheekbones. He traces his hands down Sherlock's chest. "You feel real." He says, his voice full of wonder. "Actually real."

Sherlock has to clear his throat before he's able to speak. He's never been so tongue-tied in all his life. "I could say the same about you."

The Captain looks up at him in surprise. "Of course I'm real. You're the one who nobody else can see." His voice isn't accusatory, but clearly he thinks of Sherlock as the impossible one.

"Who no one else can see?" Sherlock asks. He assumed the man he was painting was merely a figment of his imagination. He makes it sound as if he actually has memories outside being art.

The Captain looks a little embarrassed as he answers the question. "Yeah. I've been... seeing you for months, but I'm the only one. I thought I was hallucinating."

"Wait. You..." Sherlock pauses and waves one hand through the air, looking for the word. "Exist somewhere else?"

"Of course I exist somewhere else; what's that supposed to mean?" The Captain pulls back looking slightly affronted.

"I've been dreaming of you. But I assumed you were a figment of my imagination. The ambush, in the ravine. Did that happen?" Sherlock asks, wanting to know how much of his dreams were real.

A shocked expression crosses the Captain's face. "How do you know about that!?" He pauses and looks around. When he speaks again, there's a slight panicked edge to his voice. "Where am I? How'd I get here?" There's no more wonder or want in his eyes, only fear and anger.

Sherlock takes a deep breath; this wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting. "I painted a portrait, of you. And it - you - came alive. I painted the... body you're in right now." The Captain looks down at himself and runs his hands over skin and clothing. Sherlock wonders if he can feel the different textures.

"Where am I?" He asks, not looking up.

"London." Sherlock replies, and he stiffens.

"No. Either this is the Englishman's sick idea of a joke or I'm dreaming." The Captain looks up with fire in his eyes. "Do you work for him, then? The whole raid was staged, then? Very clever, you had me for a moment-"

"No!" Sherlock cries. "No! This isn't a joke, you're not dreaming. I'm real! One hundred percent!" He can hear the panic in his own voice now. "I won't hurt you."

"This is impossible!" The Captain is practically shouting now. "I was in Afghanistan three minutes ago! I can't just have teleported from there to here!"

"I don't know how you got here, but you're here now. You've done this before, remember? When I painted the smaller portrait." Sherlock's trying very hard to get his emotions under control, but can't help the tremor that creeps into his voice. "You kissed me."

The Captain looks startled, about what, Sherlock no longer knows. He takes a deep breath and walks to the window and pulls back the curtain. "I'm really in London." He whispers.

The silence that fills the room is unbearable to Sherlock, but he endures it for the Captain's sake. He clearly needs to think, and Sherlock is willing to give him that time. He himself isn't sure how this works.

Eventually the Captain turns back to him. "I've been seeing you. You've been dreaming of me. So, what? You painted a portrait of me?"

Sherlock nods. "Of a picture of you that I saw in a dream. Someone handed it to you, and I finally knew what you looked like."

The Captain nods, then looks back up at Sherlock with new light in his eyes. "Why?"

Sherlock searches his memory to figure out what the Captain was talking about, but for once in his life drew a blank. "Why what?"

"Why paint a portrait of me in the first place? And then go and paint a life-size one? I mean, something this realistic couldn't be easy." The Captain plucked at his jacket as if to prove his point.

Sherlock has no answer to that question, not for the Captain, not even for himself. He can only shake his head.

"Not good enough. You have to've had a reason." The Captain's voice is quiet, but there's a hard edge hidden in it. He walks toward Sherlock until they're an arm's length apart.

"I-" Sherlock's voice cracks on the word and he has to start again. He feels sadly empty, like he's hollow inside. It's not a feeling he's familiar with. "I don't know. I just... wanted to." The words seem so inadequate, and he can't meet the Captain's eye. "I... feel things around you, about you. I want to be around you. I don't know. I just... I should-" Sherlock stops talking when he feels a hand on his cheek, but can't bring himself to look at the Captain.

Another hand joins the first, and together they guide his eyes to the Captains. He's close now, so close. "Hey, Ravenette." It takes Sherlock a moment to realize that's the Captain's name for him. "You're in love."

 

It looks to John like the Ravenette can't quite comprehend what he was told. Confusion, denial, shock, and more confusion cross his face in short order. He opens his mouth, pauses, then closes it quickly. John can barely keep from laughing, but he also wonders if love is really such a foreign concept to this man.

When he looks somewhat settled, confused but no longer shocked, John moves one hand from his face to his neck and pulls him down for a kiss. The Ravenette relaxes into it immediately, and John feels hands curling around his body. And eager tongue swipes at his lips and John doesn't deny it.

They quickly become lost in sensation. Compared to the heat and the feel of Afghanistan, Sherlock's skin is smooth and cool. Clothes are stripped off and they manage to make their way to the bed. All other worries are forgotten for the night.

 

Mycroft's mobile rings while he's on the phone with the French ambassador. So he ignores it. Five minutes later, it rings again. Mycroft picks it up and silences it, then goes back to his conversation.

He's done an hour later, and whoever called him didn't leave a message. He recognizes the number as the head of the team watching Sherlock. They'd been watching almost a week now. When he couldn't reach Mycroft by calling, he left one text message.

Someone else with Holmes. Unknown who or how arrived. No one came or went. Orders?

Mycroft opens the picture attached and his heart nearly stops. It's Watson. Exactly as he appears in his military photos. There's a slightly surreal quality to him, but Mycroft dismisses it as the lighting and poor quality of the picture. 

Mycroft takes a moment to regain his composure and calls the field team.

"Tell me everything you know about Sherlock's guest."

The man takes a breath before talking. "We don't know anything, really, sir. The curtains have been closed for days and then all've a sudden they open and this guy's there. It's possible he entered before we found Mr. Holmes, but the room looked empty before Holmes closed the curtains. That's all we know. The room's quiet and the curtains are still closed."

Mycroft hangs up on him, frustrated and confused. Watson is on an American ship in the Gulf of Persia in a coma. It was frankly impossible for him to be in London. Mycroft had gotten an update on his condition from Commander Hulken that morning.

So had Sherlock found someone else? Just someone who resembled Watson? It was not outside the realm of possibility, if somewhat unlikely. Mycroft's main concern at this point was for Sherlock's safety. When his brother finally returns back to Baker Street Mycroft must be sure to pay him a visit-

Mycroft pauses. Sherlock knows he can't keep anything - especially something this big - from his older sibling. So why even try and hide it? And what was the point of the canvas?

Mycroft opens the picture on his phone again. The person does look strange, and the more Mycroft looks the less he believes it's just the lighting, though the quality is atrocious. But that is an exact copy of the portrait at the flat that started this all. The canvas could be used to do a life-size portrait of that man-

Mycroft shakes his head. So many unanswered questions, and in an attempt to answer them, his imagination was running way with him. The only person capable of dragging him around in so many circles is his little brother. But if Sherlock is purposely being cagy about his sexual life, Mycroft knows he doesn't have the energy to sort it out now. It's been almost 48 hours since he last got any sleep; world emergencies were so time-consuming. He'd deal with this tomorrow morning.

 

Sherlock wakes to find the Captain standing at the window again. He's wearing his t-shirt and boxers but nothing else. The moon's out and lights up his face and upper body. He looks... not quite real. Like a cartoon drawn into a live-action movie. But he's not cartoonish at all, simply not quite real.

He's looking at the world like he still can't quite believe it all. Sherlock can't blame him; they hadn't reconciled their different realities at all last night. They'd had more important things to do. 

Sherlock's lips twitch in a small smile, and even that small movement catches the Captain's attention. He looks at Sherlock with kindness in his eyes, something that makes Sherlock feel warm and calm inside. He smiles back at Sherlock and moves away from the window. The curtains swish close and the room is plunged into darkness again.

"Did I wake you?" The Captain asks, laying down next to Sherlock and kissing him gently.

"No." Sherlock responds as briefly as possible before kissing the Captain back, longer this time. They kiss and run their hands over each other's skin for a long moment before the Captain pulls back.

"We need to talk." His tone is serious and Sherlock opens his eyes. His expression is solemn and just a little worried.

Sherlock nods and adjusts himself slightly to get more comfortable. This is going to be a long conversation.

The Captain takes a breath. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes. You?"

The Captain hesitates only a moment but Sherlock notices and keeps talking before he get's a chance to answer.

"Why don't you want to tell me? Afraid I'd tell the wrong person?"

"No!" The Captain responds immediately, but there's still something else there. 

"You mentioned an Englishman before." Sherlock continues, his mind working, deducing, for the first time in more than a week. "You thought I worked for him. You-you don't still harbor that fear, but you're still uncertain of whether this man was involved or not. He-oh! You were a prisoner of war, weren't you?" Sherlock realizes, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper. He can tell he's right by the look on the Captain's face. And now he'll call me a freak, Sherlock realizes, and fear and sadness fills him.

"That. Was. Amazing." The Captain says, and it takes Sherlock far longer than it should to digest the information.

"Really?" He asks, not believing his ears.

"That was- yes. Bloody amazing!" The Captain breaks into a smile, incredulousness in his voice.

"You- don't mind?" Sherlock can't believe it. Amazing?

"Well, I'm not exactly thrilled, but it was still really impressive. I've never seen anything like it." The Captain elaborates. "Hasn't anyone ever told you that before?"

"Most people just tell me to piss off." Sherlock says, and the Captain manages to both laugh and frown at the same time. 

"Well, I don't want you do go anywhere." As if to prove his words he wraps an arm around Sherlock, hand tracing his spine. Sherlock closes his eyes at the contact, then opens them again, remembering his question.

"Will you tell me your name?" He hesitates, then adds, "Please?"

The Captain takes a deep breath and looks Sherlock straight in the eye. "Captain John Watson."

"John." Sherlock repeats, rolling the name around in his mouth. "Was I right?"

Another deep breath. "Yes. The Englishman, he-he wanted information about military bases and stuff, and-" John stops, his voice cracking.

"He tortured you, didn't he." Sherlock asks, then amends himself quickly. "No, not you. You weren't the only one to be captured most likely, and the way to you is through your teammates."

"How do you know that?" John asks, getting slightly defensive, and Sherlock assumes he's correct.

"I-" Sherlock pauses to collect his thoughts. John doesn't push. "When I dream about you, I am you. So when you were in the gully and were worried about being ambushed, I felt that worry, felt how it was directed at your teammates."

John nods, and looks away. It's a long time before he talks again. "I was shot. You didn't see that part. There were four of us who stayed behind to provide cover, and we all were overrun. I was the superior officer, so the Englishman was drilling me, and he tortured Hinde-" John stops, his voice cracking again. Sherlock traces a hand over the side of his face in an attempt to comfort him.

"Where? My brother works in the government; if you could give me a clue, he could find you-"

"The Americans already found us. That's the last thing I remember. They were taking us out, and my escort was... shot, I think, and I fell down the stairs and blacked out." John trails off, eyes glazing over. Sherlock can tell he's far away, and it's not a happy place. He moves his hand from John's face to the back of his neck and rests his forehead against John's.

"I need to go back, Sherlock." John whispers, not opening his eyes. Sherlock feels his stomach plummet. He doesn't want him to go. When Sherlock doesn't respond, John opens his eyes. "I need to help if I can."

"But you're out. It's over. Why do you need to go back? There's really no point-" Sherlock talks quickly, and can't keep the edge of panic out of his voice.

"But I can't stay here forever, Sherlock. I-" John halts with a sigh, searching for the word. "I exist somewhere else, too. And, if this is possible, I think that's the real me. I need to go back there, make sure my men are okay, tell intelligence about the Englishman-"

John stops abruptly as Sherlock rolls over and sits up with his back to John. His sense of panic is even more acute now, and he feels hollow inside again. He wants - needs - John to stay. But logically he knows that is not a possibility. 

He hears sheets rustle and the bed shifts under him and John crawls up behind him. He presses his lips to Sherlock's neck, then rests his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'll come back. I was shot; I'm no good as a soldier or a surgeon anymore. And I've got nowhere else to go, nothing to keep me from coming back." When Sherlock doesn't say anything he continues. "It'll take some time; I'm going to be in a hospital for awhile. But I will come to London when I'm discharged. I will come find you, Sherlock." 

There's a new edge to John's voice. A determined edge. It sounds strong and confident, and makes Sherlock believe John completely. And oh, how he wants to believe John. He turns his head and his nose brushes John's hair. He breaths in the scent of sweat and gunpowder and desert heat.

"Please." He breaths.

"Please what?" John whispers back.

"Come back to me."

John envelops Sherlock in a hug, the first he's had in years. Sherlock reciprocates immediately, arms wrapping tight around John's torso. He doesn't want him to go, but he will let him go with the promise that John will be back. It's been a long time since I could trust anyone like that, Sherlock realizes.

Eventually they break apart and John slides off the bed in search of his clothes. Sherlock stays sitting and watches, memorizing everything there is to know about his Captain. He doesn't want to forget anything.

 

Mycroft is forced to deal with the Russians before he is able to pay his brother a visit. They were being more petulant than usual, and it took far longer than necessary to resolve the issues at hand. 

But finally, finally, it was all done. And Mycroft gets into the car Anthea provides with a sigh. She's sitting next to him, typing rapidly on her phone, probably conferring with the team watching Sherlock.

Mycroft adjusts himself to get more comfortable as the car starts moving. "Well?" He demands of Anthea.

"The man was seen again last night. He stood at the window for 36 minutes. From what they could see of Sherlock Holmes, limited indicators would suggest they engaged in sexual intercourse." Anthea clears her throat delicately. 

Mycroft leans back into the leather of the car and stares out the window. That wasn't surprising; it was exactly what he thought it would be. The only question that remained was the identity of the man Sherlock was sleeping with.

The rest of the car ride is spent in silence. When they reach the location, Mycroft gets out of the car by himself and walks to the room Sherlock was hiding in. He knocks, but there's no answer. Mycroft waits a moment, then tries the handle. Unlocked.

Mycroft pushes open the door and walks in to the tiny room smoothly, with all the grace of a dancer. Sherlock is sitting on the bed, very much alone, facing a life-size portrait of Captain Watson. For it is clearly Watson now. The man is in a captain's uniform and the background greatly resembles Afghanistan. 

"Very skillfully done." Mycroft remarks, forgoing all niceties.

"There are four British soldiers. They were POWs, but were rescued by Americans. You should find them; I'm sure their families would thank you." Sherlock doesn't look at Mycroft, instead keeps his eyes firmly on the painting.

Mycroft's taken aback, and if Sherlock had been paying him even the slightest attention, he would have seen the surprise written all over his body. How could Sherlock possibly know that? Mycroft looks more closely at his brother. He's only half dressed: his shirt unbuttoned, his jacket laying on the floor in a crumpled heap. 

His hands are folded on his lap, a piece of brown cloth wound around them. Mycroft can barely make out a red cross on the fabric.


	6. Lonely Hearts and Lost Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John undergoes physical therapy for his wound, and then moves to London. Mycroft still doesn't understand.

John didn't realize until much later that he and Sherlock had committed a fatal mistake. In his worry over Hinde and everyone, and trying to reassure Sherlock, John had forgotten to ask where Sherlock lived.

Sure, he might be able to find him in a phone book, and while there couldn't be many "Sherlock"s in the world, that would still take time. And what if Sherlock didn't live in London most of the time? And even if all turned out well, in the interim they couldn't phone or write. And that was, perhaps, the most frustrating thing. 

John had woken from his coma quickly. He'd seem many people come out of a comma, but none quite like him. For most people it was a slow and painful process. For him, it had been over in a second. One moment he was looking at Sherlock from inside the picture, and the next he was laying in the hospital completely awake. 

He'd been out for a week, which is hardly outrageous as comas go, but still frustrating. Blackwood, McMath, and Hinde were all well taken-care of, and all were very glad to see him awake. He and Hinde had held a brief conversation where Hinde had promised in no uncertain terms to knock John upside the head - officer or not - if he didn't stop beating himself up. 

They left the ship shortly after John awoke, and were separated from there. Two months later, John is still in the hospital, waiting for his shoulder to heal and undergoing physical therapy. Every night he goes to sleep hoping he'll see Sherlock again, and every night it doesn't happen. 

He's had visits from McMath, Hinde, Blackwood, his old CO, Major James Sholto, all of them. And he's glad to see them, but both the hospital and the fact he's had no contact with Sherlock is starting to wear on him. 

After three months, John stops hoping to see Sherlock. Whatever magic moved him from Afghanistan to London clearly doesn't work in transporting him from one part of England to another. Maybe Sherlock even has no interest in seeing him anymore. Maybe he tore all the canvases to shreds and that's why it won't work.

 

After three months, John finally gets his hands on a laptop when his psychiatrist tells him to write a blog. He has no interest in the blog, but has something else in mind. He goes to a search engine and types in Sherlock's name. He's expecting a small list of people but what he finds instead is fascinating.

He found a website, the Science of Deduction. It sounded so much like the man John knew, the man who'd known things that he couldn't possibly have been told about. Somehow it only seemed fitting that he be a detective. John almost left a message in the comments, be decided against it. Sherlock's address was on the website, why not simply mail him a letter?

John goes through six drafts before coming up with something he likes. He simply identifies himself, tells Sherlock he misses him, and asks that Sherlock write back. He states his request is because he's bored stiff in the hospital, but really it's more for security; it's been three months after all.

 

Mycroft isn't in the habit of going through Sherlock's mail, but his younger sibling had neglected to pick it up again that day, and Mrs. Hudson had asked him to take it upstairs with him. Mycroft could hardly refuse the woman, common courtesy and all that, so he ended up taking the mail up to Sherlock.

They'd been seeing a lot of each other since the events at the motel, Sherlock and his old brother. Sherlock still wouldn't explain any of it, and Mycroft still wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Every time Sherlock asked about the POWs, Mycroft counted by asking how he knew, and things broke down from there. They'd been doing that for three months and it was getting tedious.

Of course Mycroft can see how unhappy his brother is; he's not blind, and any old fool could pick up on it at this point. But Mycroft needs to know how Sherlock knew; it's a matter of national security, which is not boring no matter how many times Sherlock insists it is.

In any case, the letter that came in the post is the most promising and interesting lead yet. It was sent from an Army recovery hospital by a certain John Watson. Mycroft slips it into his jacket pocket to read after his visit. Unbidden, his mind runs through all the laws he's breaking; theft, tampering with the post, not to mention the moral qualms of reading someone else's mail.

He mentally shrugs and opens the door to his brother's flat. It has been cleaned, completely cleared. There isn't a canvas or easel in sight. All the painting supplies had been moved, all the spilled paint cleaned. Sherlock's sitting in a newly-visible chair, finger steepled under his nose.

"Moving out, are we?" Mycroft asks to break the ice. He knows that's not the case, but he has no idea what is the case.

"Don't be so thick, Mycroft. It's unbecoming of someone who spends the majority of their time being obnoxiously clever." Sherlock doesn't open his eyes or move his fingers, causing him to mumble slightly. It's a stark contrast to his usually precise was of talking.

"You're one to talk." Mycroft responds dryly to his brother's insult. He walks across the room and sets the mail on the scrubbed table. "Brought you your post."

"I'll be sure to thank Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock sounds completely sincere, and normally Mycroft can tell when his brother is mocking him.

Mycroft gives a long-suffering sigh and moves to stand in front of his brother. "Where is your artwork, Sherlock?"

"Oh, Mycroft." Sherlock finally moves, opening his eyes, standing, and dropping his hands to his sides. "That is so two days ago. I would have expected you to have known already, what with the spies you have watching me." Sherlock looks Mycroft directly in the eye, and Mycroft gets the feeling he's being subtly challenged.

But he's in no mood to play games with his little brother. "What do you plan on doing with yourself, then, if not your art?"

Sherlock whirls away to stand in front of a window. "I thought I'd solve crimes and the like. With D.I. Lestrade."

There's a long pause, and Mycroft takes a deep breath. Sherlock has always solved crimes, but as a hobby, secondary to his art. He only took the most interesting cases, and often Lestrade had to practically beg for his help. Why the sudden change?

"Sherlock-"

"How are the POWs doing?" They started talking at the same time, and Sherlock overrides his brother. Mycroft doesn't mind, maybe this time he might learn something. 

Sherlock's voice is casual, possibly hoping Mycroft would slip up and answer without thinking. His brother should know better, but Mycroft is willing to play this game.

He keeps his voice equally casual. "Oh, you know. The usual." Except Sherlock would not know what the usual was, and would have to ask for more information.

Mycroft can see his brother bristle under this conundrum, but he keeps his voice light. "The usual?"

"Yes." Mycroft draws the word out. "Thank you for the information, by the way. I would love to know where you got it. It could be quite useful to use in the future."

Sherlock's shoulders slump slightly as he sighs, and he stares out the window, though Mycroft is certain he doesn't care about the pedestrians. Everything about this evening screams depression at Mycroft, and he almost gives the letter to Sherlock now, but refrains from doing so. As much as he loves his brother, king and country must come first. As commonplace as that was, it was still true.

"Just answer me, Sherlock-" Mycroft starts the argument. It has grown old and stale, following a predictable pattern by now. Or, at least, it used to.

"I CAN'T!" Sherlock bellows, whipping his body around to face his insidious sibling. Mycroft visibly jumps, unprepared for such an onslaught from Sherlock at this time. But he recovers quickly and his own temper, long controlled, suddenly flares.

"And why not!?" He snarls. "This is no game, Sherlock! You may be too petty and bored to realize, but we are talking about the very aegis of the nation, you cannot just dismiss that-"

"Oh, Mycroft." Sherlock half-laughs, half-snarls. "And you think I'm petty? You hide behind your desk all day, you never interact with the people you work so very hard to defend; you don't even like them! So why defend them? Why get involved in all their petty disagreements in the first place?"

"This is not about me, Sherlock!" Mycroft bites back. "This is about you and what you are keeping from me!"

"What about you!" Sherlock screams, blasting Mycroft with the full force of his rage. "What are you keeping from me, eh? Something that is far more precious than your 'safekeeping the nation,' that's for sure!"

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, making a visible effort to control his temper now. "What am I 'keeping' from you?" Sherlock scowls and turns away, but Mycroft isn't stopping, not when he's this close. "If you don't tell me anything," he presses, voice soft again, "I can't help you."

"I don't need your help." Sherlock mutters into the window, voice so quiet Mycroft has to strain to hear it. "Just answer my bloody questions."

"Answer mine." Mycroft responds and Sherlock's back stiffens. "This is give and take, Sherlock. You give me something, I'll give you something."

There's a long pause. Sherlock stares out the window, Mycroft stares at Sherlock, waiting. Mycroft knows Sherlock is desperately looking for a way to get something for nothing, to outsmart his older sibling, but Mycroft is secure in the knowledge that he is smarter than his little brother.

"You ask me a question, I'll answer and then ask my own question. Either person can decline a question, but then the inquirer has the right to ask a new one until an answer is given." Sherlock speaks quickly, but his tone makes him sound tired. 

"Fair enough." Mycroft agrees, despite how childish the rules may seem. "I'll go first. How long have you known your source?"

"Months." Sherlock responds shortly. "Are the POWs alright?"

"Yes." Mycroft refuses to volunteer more information than necessary. He may be smarter than Sherlock, but Sherlock will still be able to drag this out to infinity. "Is your source a foreign national?"

"No." The answer surprises Mycroft, but Sherlock gives him no to time to digest it. "Are they in British custody?"

"Yes. How did you and your source meet?"

"By accident. Where do you keep them?"

"We don't keep them Sherlock." Mycroft drawls, and his brother bristles again. "Where did you meet your source-"

"Answer the question, Mycroft!" Sherlock growls in frustration. "You know what I was asking."

"But that's not what you said, Sherlock. You have to be precise. Now, where did you-"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yells. "This isn't a game!"

"No, it's not, Sherlock." Mycroft's own voice is rising again. "So tell me what I want to know, and then I can tell you what you want!"

"Get out." Sherlock's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "Just get out."

Mycroft recognizes that tone, but still he hesitates. Sherlock's breathing heavily, head hung, fists clenched. It was a danger night, clearly. Again.

Any attempt to communicate with Sherlock in this state would be futile, Mycroft knows, so he simply turns and leaves. He stops by Mrs. Hudson on his way out and tells her Sherlock requested a cup of tea. She says something about not being his housekeeper, but bustles about the kitchen anyway. Mycroft stays only long enough to ensure the tea will be delivered. 

 

An hour later, Mycroft sets the letter on his desk. It was very interesting. And completely impossible. Sherlock and Dr. Watson never met, and all of a sudden they know each other well enough to possibly be... in love?

Sherlock did go to Uni, and Mycroft hadn't kept watch on his brother back then. It was possible that they had met then... But why the sudden romantic feelings? Why the sudden paintings and the breakdown? Had they been in contact and... what? What could have happened? A fallout? But Watson's letter referenced no such event.

The most concerning aspect was the man from the photographs three months ago. The man Sherlock had spent the week with in a motel room. The man who could disappear and reappear at will. Mycroft snorts. There's a logical explanation; there always is, and it will present itself in due time.

 

After six months in a hospital, John is more than ready to get out. His discharge takes far to long to go through, and he's practically dying of the wait when he's finally allowed to leave. Now he's out of the hospital, the army, and, well, a job. And a home. And funding - his pension won't go very far in London. 

The first step is, of course, get a job. Harry visited him in the hospital and gave him her phone, which is good because at least he has a phone number. And he found a small inexpensive place to live for the short term, but as inexpensive as it is he won't be able to afford it for very long.

He gets nightmares now, really terrible ones, about the war. And he has a pronounced limp. His psychiatrist insists writing will help, but he doesn't because nothing ever happens to him. Nothing at all. 

Until today.

He was walking to the store to do some usual shopping. He'd decided not to use cabs if he could avoid it; too expensive, and in any case the walk was not long. He was about halfway there when the phone in a restaurant rang. It was strange because phones like that don't usually ring, no one would ever call them. 

The clerk at the counter gives a look to the phone that says he agrees with John and goes to answer it, but it stops ringing just before he does.

John stops to watch this, then shakes his head and keeps walking. Whatever.

He walks by a bank a few minutes later, the kind with a row of phone booths just inside the doors. The phone on the end starts ringing. John stops and stares at it, then looks around; maybe someone else is expecting it, but no one else pays it any mind. Does it do this often, then?

John looks at the phone one last time, then slowly limps away. The phone stops ringing shortly after he passes the bank.

A red telephone box a block down is next. It starts ringing just as John draws level with it. He gives a frustrated sigh and walks into the box. He picks up the phone and barks "What!?"

"Look at the camera across the street." A cool, male voice tells him, and John turns in-spite of himself. It's facing his direction, but suddenly starts turning to face away. John scans quickly to find other cameras, and sees two, both of which turn themselves away from him.

"How are you doing this?" He asks the man on the phone, not scared but maybe a little disturbed. 

"There's a car coming for you, Dr. Watson. I'd get in it." The voice continues smoothly, and then John hears a click and the dial-tone. He frowns and hesitantly sets the phone back on the hook. He makes his way out of the box just in time to see a sleek black car pull up to the curb next to him, the back door opening to admit him. 

John bends his head to try and see who's in the vehicle, but it's not well-lit; the tainted windows blocking London's foggy light. John takes a deep breath and climbs into the car; if these people are powerful enough to divert CC-TV cameras, he's got no chance of stoping them.

There's a beautiful young woman in the car with long dark hair. She's texting when he gets in, and only glances up for a moment in greeting. John nods back and settles into his seat as the car pulls away from the curb.

"Who are you?" He asks a moment later.

"Um... Anthea." The woman replies without looking up. 

"That's not your real names, is it?" John asks, looking at her, and she glances up with an apologetic smile. "Any point in asking where we're going?" John continues. Anthea's smile doesn't change and she shakes her head slightly.

"Of course not." John mutters and turns his head to look out the window to no avail, the tinted glass is not one-way.

 

It takes them ten minutes to get where they're going. When they stop he looks at Anthea who gives him a small nod and smile of encouragement before he gets out. He climbs out of the car and his first impression is that they're in come kind of empty parking garage. There's a single, tall, well-dressed man standing in a pool of light created by nearby floodlights. He's leaning on a black umbrella in-front of a single chair.

John takes a deep breath and limps over. "You know, you could just phone me... On my phone. I have one for a reason."

"Dr. John Watson. Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You are a very interesting man." The man in the suit says.

"What do you want from me?" John asks with a sigh, already tired of the man's flair. 

"Please, have a seat." The man gestures to the chair John's standing next to.

"I'm fine." John says quickly. No way on earth he's sitting down. The suit seems to think that's funny, and smiles at him in the patronizing way adults use with children. John doesn't relent.

"Dr. Watson, I have something here that I think belongs to you." The man holds up a folded piece of paper and John shrugs.

"It's a letter," The man continues, opening it. "Addressed 'Dear Sherlock Holmes,' and signed 'Love, John Watson.'"

John hadn't thought about Sherlock Holmes in months. He never wrote back and eventually John just got over him and moved on. Or at least, he thought he'd moved on. Hearing Sherlock's name again was like a physical blow. He tries his best to not let it show, but he's pretty sure the other man notices. The suit's watching him like a hawk.

Slowly the minutes crawl by and John gets over his shock. When he can think clearly, he realizes the man has his letter. To Sherlock. And he's not Sherlock.

"What are you doing with that?! Where did you get it?" John demands angrily. 

"What would you say if I said I found in his rubbish?" The man asks.

I wouldn't be surprised, John thinks. "I would say it's none of your business." He says instead, glad his voice sounds sharp.

"Sherlock is an... associate of mine, and I am very much interested in his health." John takes a breath to intercede, but the man keeps talking. "And I want to ensure he doesn't get hurt."

"What do you want from me?" John cuts in quickly, his voice tired.

The man raises an eyebrow. "I want to make sure you won't hurt him."

John blinks and there's surprise written all over his face. This man thinks he'd hurt Sherlock? Never! How could he even-!? John takes a breath to compose himself before speaking again. 

"Well, I won't. Can I go now?"

"I think you are hurting him." The man says suddenly. 

"It's really none of your business." John stresses.

"How did you meet him, anyway?"

"If you don't want to drive me that's fine; I can just walk." John turns slightly to point behind himself.

"Dr. Watson, I don't think you understand." The man starts, but John really isn't talking about this with him.

"Look. Sherlock Holmes and I haven't spoken for a very long time, I doubt he even remembers I exist, so you don't have to worry about anything. I'm not even going to talk to him. Now, if that's all..." John gestures meaningfully in the direction of the car.

The man studies John for a moment, then sighs. "Very well. It was... very informative to meet you, Doctor." He turns and walks away, using his umbrella like a decorative cane. 

A car door opens behind John and he turns to see Anthea get out, still staring at her phone. "I'm to take you wherever you want to go." She says, and John recites his address as he gets back in.

 

John is acutely aware of position of two things in relation to him. Both are five steps away, in a drawer. One is sitting on top of the other. 

John always knows exactly where his gun is, it's as if he can sense the lethalness of the weapon. As a doctor, that's not surprising. And while the gun is on his mind, it's his laptop that's burning a hole in his chest.

He remembers the name of Sherlock's website. Could find it and the address again if he wanted. But Sherlock threw his letter out and there's really no point in facing rejection is there?

John shakes his head in frustration. What changed? Had Sherlock met someone else? Which was fine. Completely fine. Three months was a long time. John shouldn't have expected him to wait. This is what happened every time he tried to have a relationship while in the military. Hopefully things will be different - better - now. Once he gets a job. And a life.

John presses the heals of his hands to his eyes and pretends he's not crying.

 

Mycroft tosses the letter into the fire once he gets home. Sherlock's moved on in the past three months, completely his normal self again. And if John was over... whatever it was he and Sherlock had possibly shared, there was no point bringing it up again. They could just move on, the both of them. And that would be that.


	7. Stayin' Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides London is no better a place than Afghanistan. And Sherlock really hates The Englishman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hello. This chapter was really hard to write - I don't even know why, it just was - so once I finished it, there was no way in hell I was going back to edit it, so I'm sorry, but I just can't right now. Point it out to me, and I will fix it, however.  
> Furthermore, I tried something new this time, so tell me if you liked it or not, please, because that's always good to know.  
> Finally, I would like to thank and credit the lovely ariandedevere at livejournal who provided the world with a transcript that without which I would have died. Thank you so much.  
> Finally, thank you to all who read, comment, and leave kudos. Enjoy.

John slaps the newspaper down with a sigh. He really should stop paying attention to the news. John's psychiatrist thought he was depressed - and in a honestly he probably was - but the news sure as hell wasn't helping. Something about a psychopath running around the city strapping bombs to random people and then demanding the police solve some kind of crime.

Sick. 

John forces himself to his feet and goes over to the kitchen to make himself a cuppa. He opens the cabinet to find no tea. Fantastic. But on the same hand completely unsurprising; he hasn't been out of his tiny flat in days. 

"I am so depressed." John mutters to the ceiling. The stained white paint stares back dully. John takes a deep breath and shuffles about the flat for his coat and shoes to go to the store. The fresh air and exercise from a walk would do him good.

"Unless I get kidnapped by a bomb-totting psychopath." John laughs bitterly. That would be just his luck.

He gets outside and makes his way to the store. It's actually a nice day out, and John enjoys the wake. He gets tea and a few other necessities and then walks home. He's in a much better mood when he gets back than when he started.

He gets back just after sunset, and the city continues to darken for another half-hour before lighting up for the night. John eats dinner - a simple instant-food meal - and gets on his laptop. He finds an old favorite movie of his online and delves into that. 

About halfway through, John thinks he hears something behind him and pulls his headphones off. He doesn't hear something, but he has the strangest feeling. Like walking down a ravine in Afghanistan. He starts to turn, but a bag is suddenly forced over his head and a hand clamped over his mouth.

 

Sherlock pulls the flash drive out of his pocket and wraps his fingers around it, thumb sliding up and down the cool plastic thoughtfully. He still has time to call Lestrade... No, better he do this alone. The police would only screw things up.

He pushes open the door to the pool and smells chlorine and bleach and stale air. There's no one around. He clasps his hands behind his back, absently tapping the drive with his fingers. He walks out into the room, closer to the edge of the pool, and does a 360-turn, looking over the stands, looking for his mystery friend. Nothing.

"Brought you a little 'getting-to-know-you' present." He calls out, sounding as calm and confident as he feels. He holds up the drive and scans the pool again, expecting someone to walk out.

"Oh, that's what it's all be for, isn't it?" He continues, showing off. "All your little puzzles; making me dance. All to distract me from this." He raises his hand a little higher to emphasis the word, and turns again, still not seeing anyone.

And then a door opens behind him, and he can barely contain a smile as he turns, but he keeps a straight face, just barely. A short, blonde-haired man in a green parka walks out, hands in his pockets, and turns. And Sherlock knows the expression on his face is pure and utter shock.

The person in the parka. It's John. His John. Captain John Watson. What!? Sherlock's mind is screaming, refusing to believe. What!? Why? It't can't be true! Can it?

"Evening." John says evenly, blinking very rapidly. Some part of Sherlock's mind is screaming that he needs to think, needs to see everything, but all he can see is John. His John. Or maybe not his John. Because he broke his promise. He never came back. Never wrote or called or anything. And he's been here, all the time-

"This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock." John continues, still blinking. Why is he blinking!? "Bet you never saw this coming." His words are clipped and stilted; he doesn't sound like he did months ago.

"John." Sherlock croaks out. He can't think. Why would John do this. He's not a bad person. Even after being shot and tortured, he wasn't a bad person-

John pulls his hands out of his pockets and the jacket pulls apart a little. Sherlock gets a glimpse of a black vest and a red light and then it closes again. BOMB, Sherlock's mind screams and suddenly he's thinking again. He looks John in the eye and sees the pattern in his blinking. Three short blinks, three long, three short again - SOS. Help me. Save me.

"Do you two know each other?" John continues, and Sherlock quickly wipes the look of surprise off his face. "Well?" John prompts, and his voice shakes a little.

"We've met." Sherlock says simply, loud enough for the bomber to hear. Now he can see the earpiece in John's ear. It all makes sense... well, not really. But it's not John. John's not the bomber. Sherlock can barely breath in his releif.

"Oh." John says. "Well, what would you like me to make him say next?" John grabs the sides of the coat and pulls it apart slowly, revealing the bomb in all it's horrible glory. A red laser-dot appears on him, flicking around his chest and body.

Sherlock ignores him and walks toward John, still looking around for the bomber.

"Gottle of gear, gottle of gear, gottle of gear-" John starts talking random nonsense, and for some reason it really irks Sherlock.

"Stop it." He barks, not looking at John.

"Nice touch, this. The pool. Where little Carl died." John starts again, his voice still stilted and overprecise. "I stopped him." John pauses, closes his eyes, swallows. Sherlock turns back to him, trying very hard to stay in control.

"I can stop John Watson, too. The good doctor. Stop his heart." John continues. 

"Who are you?" Sherlock calls out, more quickly than he would have liked. 

"Bit worried, are we? What's the matter? You and John old 'mates?'" John continues, and Sherlock looks him in the eye. He stares back, face carefully blank. Sherlock would give anything to know what he was thinking just then.

"Because John and I are old friends, too." A new voice suddenly calls at the other end of the pool. John stiffens and looks down as Sherlock looks for the bomber. 

He's shorter than Sherlock but taller than John, dressed in a nice black suit, hair neatly combed. He pushes the door open with his back and turns around so Sherlock can see him. He knows he's seen him before, but can't quite remember where.

"I gave you my number." The man drawls, but Sherlock doesn't say anything. Who gave him a phone number? Why can' the remember!? "I thought you might call." The man start strolling across the deep end of the pool toward John and Sherlock. He looks at Sherlock for a moment, then looks down at his shoes. 

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in you pocket?" He muses to the cold tile. Sherlock slowly pulls it out and points it at the man. Sherlock's knows he knows the bomber, but where else has he seen the man? Where!?

"-Or are you just pleased to see me?" The man continues, looking back up at Sherlock with a half-smile on his face. Sherlock doesn't respond. There isn't a bone in his body that doesn't want to smash this man to pieces for strapping a bomb to John.

The man stops walking and faces Sherlock properly, hands in his pockets casually. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!" His voice is sing-song and casual. And finally Sherlock places the face. Jim. Jim for I.T. Molly's gay boyfriend. That voice, that look, the phone number; it all slides into place.

"Jim?" The man asks, clearly worried Sherlock didn't make the connection. "From the-"

"Hospital, yes, I know." Sherlock finishes, feeling like he needs to regain more control of the conversation.

"Oh!" Jim's expression brightens. "I'm glad you finally remembered."

Sherlock finally gives into his emotions and flicks his eyes quickly to John. Moriarty must have seen the movement and starts talking. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Sherlock looks back at Moriarty. He's started walking again and stands at the corner of the pool, directly in front of Sherlock and John.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. John caught another part of my act in Afghanistan, did you know? Isn't the right, Johnny-boy?" Sherlock looks at John, who stiffens and grimaces. It's true. This is the Englishman John kept referring to. Sherlock has to take a deep breath to get himself under control before looking back at Moriarty.

"I'm a specialist, you see..." Moriarty pauses, then smilies and looks right at Sherlock. "Like you!"

Sherlock's mind races, but can't seem to come up with an answer. Moriarty helps people commit crimes, not... terrorists... fight... wars? Why would he care about troop movements?

"I'm a consulting-" Moriarty starts again, bringing Sherlock back to reality.

"Criminal, yes." Sherlock nods, still thinking.

Moriarty smiles smugly. "No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

Sherlock moves his free hand up to the gun for support. "I did. And it didn't take much." It's a weak attempt at argument, but it's all Sherlock can muster now.

"Hmmm." Moriarty nods slowly. "You came the closest, but, really, you know this was all about you. I cut lose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid just to get you to come out and play." Moriarty looks at Sherlock with an indescribable expression and wanders ever closer.

"But now you're in my way." He continues calmly. "Take this as a friendly warning-" A pause and a smile "-my dear. Back off."

Sherlock cocks the gun. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John is breathing heavier and has closed his eyes. The strain must be enormous, especially on John. Sherlock blinks and forces himself to concentrate. 

Moriarty doesn't seem to notice his distraction. "Although I have loves this-this little game of ours. Playing-"

"People have died." Sherlock snaps without thinking.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty responds, calmly at first but by the end of the sentence he's screaming.

"I will stop you." Sherlock tells him, cool and calm and completely honest.

"No you won't." Moriarty says matter-of-factly with a shake of his head, the anger from seconds ago already dissipated.

Sherlock can't focus anymore, so he cuts his loses and looks at John. "You alright?"

John doesn't look up, and Sherlock begins to worry even more. Moriarty comes up behind him and nudges him with an elbow, clearly startling him.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go on. I'd love to know what you two could possibly have to say to each other." John looks up and looks Sherlock in the eye, and Sherlock's brain stutters to a halt again. There's so much in that look, and while John nods his assurance that he's alright, Sherlock can see plain as day that's not true. This needs to end. Now.

Sherlock hold out one hand, working his fingers to present the flash drive to Moriarty. "Take it."

Moriarty looks at the drive closely. "Huh? Oh! That!" He smiles and strolls past John. "The missile plans." He grins at Sherlock and his tone is clearly teasing. He reaches out and traces the drive, fingers resting just a little too long on Sherlocks. Then he plucks the drive from Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock replaces it on the gun.

Moriarty smirks and shakes his head, still looking at the plans. "Boring!" He barks a laugh, looking at Sherlock. "I could have gotten them anywhere." His eyes stay fixed on Sherlock as he tosses the drive into the pool. Sherlock's eyes follow it and a frown appears on his forehead. Well, the thinks, shit.

Movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention and he snaps his eye back on Moriarty just in time to see John run forward and grab onto the criminal. The doctor's plastered himself against Moriarty, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Sherlock steps back involuntarily, but doesn't lower the gun.

"Sherlock, run!" John yells, and Sherlock can't breath. John's sacrificing himself - his John, his precious John - for me, Sherlock thinks, bewildered. Wha-why!? No. No! That's not right.

Moriarty laughs manically. "Good! Great, really!"

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, bastard, then we both go up." John's voice is savage and low, and Sherlock can hear the pain and fury that watching someone be tortured left in John's soul.

Moriarty smiles at Sherlock, his only emotion about this turn of events being excitement. "Isn't he sweet? But tough, too. He held up so well in Afghanistan." Moriarty pauses and twists his head to look at John. "You're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" Moriarty looks back at Sherlock.

For a moment, Sherlock doesn't understand. Then a flash of red light in the corner of his eye and the pure horror on John's face spell it out. Another sniper. John and Sherlock's eyes meet, and Sherlock shakes his head ever so little, praying to God John listens and doesn't get himself killed. 

There's a long moment where neither moves; Moriarty may have said something, but Sherlock's so wrapped up in John it went completely over his head. And then John lets go, stepping away quickly and putting his hands above his head.

Moriarty glances in John's direction after being let go, then straightens his suit indignantly. "Westwood." He says plainly, gesturing at it and staring at Sherlock from under his eyebrows. Sherlock doesn't respond, can't bring himself to even feign caring. 

After a moment of silence, Moriarty starts moving forward again, getting dangerously close to Sherlock. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? Do you?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed." Sherlock is personally amazed at how steady and almost bored his voice sounds.

Moriarty, on the other hand, looks hurt by Sherlock's words. "Kill you? No, Sherlock, that'd be- Well, I'm going to kill you some day, but not yet. No." Moriarty pauses and looks Sherlock straight in the eye. "I'm going to burn your heart."

Sherlock frowns. The phrasing is strange, it makes no sense to say it like that. Therefore, he must mean something else, something like-

"I didn't think it'd be possible, to break your heart. To burn it without burning you." Moriarty turns away to look at John, and his voice becomes sing-song again. "The sociopath isn't quite so co-old."

Sherlock can't breath again. His heart's in his throat. His blood's pounding in his ears. He can't think. His vision was going black. What was happening to him!? And then John looks at him, looks him in the eye. And Sherlock saw strength there, courage. And he sucked in a breath. Widened his stance.

"I've been reliably informed I don't have a heart. Oh, and, Jim-" Sherlock sneers. "-you really need to work on you deductions."

Moriarty's head whips back around. His face is cold, calculating. Sherlock keeps his breathing normal and doesn't flinch even the slightest when their eyes meet. He tries to keep him manner relaxed.

"Hmm." Moriarty muses. "Maybe. I'll give you that one, Sherlock Holmes. I'm not sure." There's a long pause while they still stare at each other. Moriarty suddenly takes a deep breath, tilts his chin up, and starts walking toward John. "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have a proper chat."

He moves toward the exit John came in through, and Sherlock moves with him, keeping him in his sights as long as possible. "Catch. You. Later." He says calmly.

Sherlock can see Moriarty's smile in the way he walks. "No you won't!"

And then the door closes. Sherlock counts to ten, then looks at John. No more laser. 

Sherlock drops the gun and races over to John. He rips the coat off his shoulders and drops to his knees to start on the vest with the bomb. 

"Alright?" He asks urgently. John doesn't answer immediately, and Sherlock's snaps up to look at him, hand cupping the back of his head, forcing John to look at him. "Are you alright!?"

John's breathing is coming in heavy gasps, but he manages to speak. "Yeah. Yeah, I"m fine. Sherlock-" John starts, but Sherlock's no longer listening. He finishes the fastenings on the vest and stands to yank it off John's shoulders, jerking John around in the process.

"SH-Sherlock." John says a little louder and with more urgency. Sherlock finally gets the bomb off and skims it away across the pool floor as fast as possible. He's breathing hard, his whole body tense and shaking with nervous energy and adrenaline as he crouches on the floor staring at the bomb.

"Sherlock!" John is suddenly in front of him, one hand on his shoulder. He's leaning on Sherlock hard and his breathing is just as fast; he's clearly in as bad shape as Sherlock.

"It's okay." John gasps. "It's over." Sherlock's eyes search John's face. He wants - needs - to hug John, kiss him, keep him close forever. He doesn't ever want to let John out of his sight again.

"That... thing." Sherlock manages to croak out. "That you... offered to... do. That was... I mean... why?" He finally gets the words out.

John's face softens slightly, but Sherlock can see creases related to stress and sadness appear. "I'm happy for you Sherlock, I really am. But," John pauses and takes a breath. "I can't change the way I feel about you."

Sherlock frowns. He forces himself to think, and kicks his mind into overdrive: "I'm happy for you" would imply a something-good, a moving-on. "But I can't change" - John still cares about him. But why would he think Sherlock didn't? John would have done his research, would have found the website. Left a post? Too public. Sent a letter to the Baker St. address? Yes. So where- Mycroft. Mycroft brought the mail three or so months ago. Just after the clearing-out. Mycroft stole the letter from John. The bastard.

"John, I am so sorry, but I never got your letter." Sherlock whispers aloud. Confusion and then hope spread across John's face, and Sherlock wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. He can't stop the tears that stream down his face.

 

Jim Moriarty watches the characters on the tiny telly screen with interest, and - if he was being honest with himself - no small amount of admiration. Sherlock had lied to his face about his feeling for the man he loves when said lover had a bomb strapped to him and Moriarty's finger was on the trigger. That took guts. That took a lot of guts. And the reason behind his distracted behavior, his not living up to expectations, was clear. 

Moriarty smiles humorlessly. He had managed to pick the one man in the whole world that could literally bring Sherlock Holmes to his knees, and it had been on a whim.

For it was true; he knew about John Watson, and if he could posses good old Johnny-boy, he would own Sherlock Holmes. All he'd need was a good sniper and a direct line to Sherlock, both of which he already had. Sherlock Holmes was his for the taking-

But that was boring. That was perfection. Another victory. That was so boring. He'd been hoping for competition. At least a distraction. And now Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to give him even that.

Maybe it was better to just off the two of them now and get it over with. He needn't even go back to the pool. He could just tell his snipers to fire, and the matter would be dealt with. But that was boring, too. The world was just so boring...

The Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive" suddenly fills the room, and Jim inwardly sighs. He pulls out his phone and looks at the caller ID. Withheld. Fine. If this person wanted to waste his time, it was his life.

"Hello?" His voice is incredulous and bored, and yet they still ask if this is 'James Moriarty, consulting criminal, blah, blah, blah.'

"Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" He snaps into the phone. The woman on the other end's voice is sultry and low, but holds no appeal to him.

He's about to hang up when she drops her bomb. And he freezes. "Say that again." He demands, voice low and dangerous. "Say that again, and know that if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you." Jim moves his free hand subconsciously to emphasize his words.

"Wait." He states into the phone, and lowers it from his ear. He looks back to the characters on the screen. Sherlock's standing now and looking much better. He has his phone out and is undoubtedly calling his little dog Lestrade. John's still on the ground, and has started minor tremors, but that's just delayed shock. He'll be fine. In fact, they both will.

"Wrong day to die, my dears." Moriarty drawls with a sneer and sends the signal for the snipers to withdraw. He takes a deep breath, straightens his tie unconsciously, and puts the phone back to his ear. There may still be bigger and better things in this world than Sherlock Holmes.

"So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes..."


	8. Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns something about Sherlock, and Mycroft learns something about his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd nor Brit-picked; sorry for the late upload. Hope you enjoy.

John accepts the coffee and the orange blanket without a word. He shrugs his shoulders to adjust the blanket more comfortably and takes a sip of the bitter coffee. He takes a deep, calming breath to regain control. His hands weren't shaking anymore, which surprised him, but he wasn't complaining. 

John looks up to find Sherlock. After the police had arrived, they'd had no time to talk. The idea that Sherlock hadn't even seen the letter hadn't occurred to John, and he couldn't describe the feeling he got from knowing Sherlock still cared - loved? - him.

Sherlock is on the other side of a sea of police cars and personnel. He's arguing with a man with salt-and-peper hair. He's obviously angry at Sherlock, and Sherlock is obviously exasperated with him. John had learned a great deal about Sherlock in the past half-hour. He worked with the police often, for reasons John didn't know, and was probably a sociopath. At the very least, he was suffering from severe antisocial personality disorder. The person he presented himself as was so different from the man John saw. And yet, he still found Sherlock Holmes irresistible. 

The man with gray hair throws up his arms in exasperated surrender and walks away from Sherlock, who throws one last frustrated word in before turning away. He turns in John's direction and their eyes meet. Neither move for a second, and then Sherlock starts to navigate his way through the mess of police to get to John. John shifts nervously to get more comfortable and tugs at the blanket absently.

Sherlock stops when he's a half-meter away. He looks extremely self-conscious as he stands in-front of John, and shifts nervously from foot to foot. John leans forward and grabs his arm, pulling him closer. Sherlock doesn't resist, and sits down next to him, bodies touching, their fingers interlacing. They're sitting much too close together to be just friends, but neither care.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, breaking the silence.

John takes another deep breath before responding. "Yeah, I am. I think the worst part was seeing him again. He just-" John stops and shivers. Sherlock holds his hand a little tighter.

"I am sorry, John." Sherlock says quietly, and John looks at him.

"What for?"

Sherlock refuses to meet his eyes, and instead stares out at the police. "For getting you involved in all of this. Putting you in danger was the last thing I wanted."

"Sherlock, this isn't your fault-" John starts, but Sherlock quickly cuts him off.

"Yes it is. Moriarty was trying to get to me; that's why he used you-"

"Sherlock, the- er, Moriarty didn't know you and I had even met. He picked me because he remembered me from Afghanistan." John says quickly, because it was the truth.

"But you're in danger now." Sherlock insists, finally looking at John. He looks vulnerable now, a complete change from how he acted around the police. 

"So?" John waves a hand dismissively. "I was a soldier, Sherlock. Danger's really not a new concept to me.

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He watches John while he talks, but looks away as soon as he's done. John wishes he could read Sherlock like Sherlock could read him; he would die to know what was going on in Sherlock's head.

"This is what I do." Sherlock says suddenly, gesturing around vaguely. "You were on the website, you know I solve crimes. I also work with the police, when they're out of their depth."

"Moriarty's someone you're after, isn't he?" John asks, seeing the connection.

Sherlock nods, not looking at him. "Yes. John." He pauses. "I've made more than my fair share of enemies. If you stay, you will be a target; they will try to use you to manipulate me. Do you still want to stay?"

"Oh, God, yes." John says without hesitation, and Sherlock smiles. He looks out over the mass of police and his smile suddenly falls into a hard-lined frown. John follows his gaze to see what was wrong.

It's the man from the garage. He's dressed in a nice suit and coat, looking like an island of calm and prestige among the frantic police. And he's coming straight toward them.

"Sherlock," John starts, shifting and moving his hand up to Sherlock's forearm. "That man, he kidnapped me a couple of weeks ago. He's the one who said you threw out my letter."

Sherlock looks at John quickly, than looks back at the man. The suit stops a respectable distance away, close enough to be heard but not close enough to make John more than just a little uncomfortable. He raises his chin slightly as he surveys the two of them.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock snaps, standing. John stays where he is, feeling safer slightly behind Sherlock. Sherlock clearly knew who this man was; he could deal with it.

"I was concerned about you. Nearly blown up in a pool today; I think that's worthy of attention." The man says, somehow managing to sound completely sincere. 

"You're concerned about me." Sherlock parrots, voice dripping with cynicism. "I would never have been able to tell, the way you've been acting these past few months."

"Always so aggressive, Sherlock. Didn't it ever occur to you that we might belong on the same side?" The man asks casually.

Sherlock's eyes harden and John knows something is very wrong.

The man takes a deep, disappointed breath. "This petty sibling rivalry, Sherlock; it's a waste of our abilities-"

"Petty. Sibling. Rivalry." Sherlock repeats slowly, voice cold and hateful. He takes a breath. "John. Let's go."

Sherlock sweeps of, his coat trailing dramatically behind him, but it takes John a moment to get moving. Sibling rivalry? He pushes off the blanket and stands, taking one last look at the man in the suit before rushing off to catch up to Sherlock.

"What just happened?" Asks, glancing over his shoulder at the suit who's standing were they left him, watching them go.

"That's my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock says, then adds under his breath, "Meddling bastard."

"Wha- how's he involved in all this?" John stammers out, confused. 

"The letter, John. The letter you sent me, he took from me before I saw it because I told him about the POWs, and now he's convinced I'm in contact with some kind of 'secret source' or something." Sherlock cries, exasperated. "It's completely ridiculous."

John glances over his shoulder to see the man hasn't moved at all. "What did you tell him about us."

Sherlock looks at him quickly, his gaze slightly accusatory. "Nothing."

"I don't care, I just... want to know..." John trails off, glancing back at Mycroft again. "Is he going to be a problem? I mean, does he know about the... painting... thing?"

Sherlock glances sideways at him before hailing a cab. They spend the ride in silence, stoping only once at John's flat so he can get an overnight back and his gun. He didn't tell Sherlock he had the latter, though he wouldn't be surprised if the detective could figure it out on his own.

After the stop, they go to Sherlock's flat. It's a nice place, spacious and tastefully decorated. The flat is neat, which surprised John, a fine layer of dust and a few piles of books on the floor the only things out of place. 

"If you're hungry, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson could whip something together. She's done so for me on more than one occasion." Sherlock tells John as he flits about sitting room, but John's not paying attention.

He has the erie feeling he's been here before, but that's impossible. He walks to table next to the far wall, glancing over the papers scattered about it with half-hearted interest before turning to see the kitchen. 

That was it. Right there. That was familiar. From a dream. As a person in a box. Kissing Sherlock for the first time. John takes a deep breath as the memories come spiraling back and looks at Sherlock, who's watching him from the other side of the flat.

"The last time I was here, the room was filled with canvases." John says.

Sherlock clears his throat and looks down. "Most of them I threw out."

"Sherlock!" John gasps. "Why? You must have been good; you must have been really good! Why throw them out?"

"Because-" Sherlock starts, then stops. "Because they reminded me of you, and at the time you were a painful memory."

John feels deflated and so sorry inside. He knew how much pain Sherlock's absence caused him, and Sherlock had been so worried about being abandoned. "I'm so sorry." John whispers.

Sherlock swallows and blinks, not looking up from the ground. John can see tears lingering on his eyelashes. He drops his bag and crosses the room quickly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him tight. Sherlock grips him back and presses his face into John's neck. John can feel the wet tears slide over his skin.

"Sherlock-" John gasps, voice full of anguish. "I am so sorry. I should have come and seen you regardless. I... I didn't mean to put you through that-"

Sherlock pulls back suddenly and kisses John. It's rough and wet, but John doesn't care. It's so good. Like a dream. He closes his eyes and slides his hands up Sherlock's neck, silently vowing to never leave him again. 

They break apart awhile later, neither knowing nor caring how long they'd been standing there. John looks up at Sherlock, who rests his forehead against John's. 

"Did you keep any artwork?" John asks quietly. Sherlock stiffens slightly, but nods. "Can I see?"

It's a long time before Sherlock moves again, and John begins to think he's going to say no. But then he stands up straight and walks over to the table against the wall. He pulls a chain from around his neck and uses one of the two keys there to unlike a drawer. He pulls out a simply massive stack of papers, most black and white but some with color.

He glances at John, who still hasn't moved, and gestures him over. John crosses the room and looks down at the sketches. The black and white ones are vague and sometimes hard to make out, but he recognizes several of them. 

"This is- Afghanistan." He says brokenly. He can remember most of the pictures. His arrival, first fire-fight, the ravine.

"What I dreamed." Sherlock states, trailing his fingers over several of the sketches, following the dark charcoal lines. "The rest of what I kept's upstairs." Sherlock pauses and licks his lips.

John looks at him. "We can do this later, if that's what you want." He reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arm in silent support. Sherlock leans into the touch.

"No, we can to it now." Sherlock says, and gently herds John across the room and up the stairs. He unlocks the door with the other key on the chain and opens it, standing to one side to let John in.

The room is practically covered in artwork. Canvases lie on the floor or lean against the wall in every available space. John walks into the room in complete awe. Everything was so good. So realistic. But, of course Sherlock would be able to capture every tiny detail. It was beautiful. 

There was a picture of him laying on the bed, and he walks over to look more closely. He's shown from the waste up, no shirt, and John realizes that was the first picture. When he was in the sitting room in the box. His fingers stroke the bumpy, cold paint, tracing the line of his face. He looks so happy in the picture, looking straight at you.

John turns to talk to Sherlock, but quickly forgets what he was going to say when he sees a life-size portrait of himself leaning against the wall. Dressed in cammo and set against the landscape of Afghanistan, he looks, well, he looks really good. He looks like a hero, really.

John looks at Sherlock, who's watching him with interest. "This is how you see me?"

"This is how you are." Sherlock says with a shrug. "Beautiful. Brave. But don't listen to Mycroft when he calls you brave; he's insulting you." Sherlock rambles.

"Sherlock." John interrupts. "I'm not... like... this." 

"John." Sherlock says, equally serious. "I've been in your head, seen your thoughts. Yes, you are." He reaches out and wraps his hands around John's neck. John puts his hands over Sherlock's and the taller man draws him closer. 

"You are beautiful." Sherlock whispers, moving his hands down John's body and mouthing at his neck.

"You are beautiful." John insists breathlessly, wrapping his hands around Sherlock and dragging one up into his hair. 

"John." Sherlock pauses, his breath hot against John's skin. "I promise I will protect you. I promise."

"And together we'll catch this bastard Moriarty." John breaths back and Sherlock nods. 

"Together." He whispers.


	9. Saviors All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One week after the pool, Mycroft pays Sherlock and John a visit.

A week later the doorbell rings. Sherlock ignores it, as always, and John goes to answer. Sherlock's laying on the couch, lost in his mind palace, but semi-aware of his surroundings. He always sleeps with the preverbal 'one eye open' now. While it is probably true he's being paranoid, Sherlock can't help it. John matters too much to him.

Sherlock mentally laughs at himself. Sentiment. He was practically dripping in it now. What would his dear brother say?

Speak of the devil...

Sherlock sits up as he hears John remount the stairs, an echoing pair of footsteps following with an umbrella. He stands and grabs his jacket from where it's draped on the back of a chair. Sherlock doesn't remember putting it there; the last time he saw it, he'd left on the kitchen floor. Good old John.

Sherlock adjusts the jacket self-consciously and buttons one button. He's still mad at his brother, and he knows it shows in everything he just did. A layer to keep them apart; a cloak to hide behind; a formal jacket to feel superior. 

Sherlock turns to face the door and John walks through it. He, too, looks out of sorts with Mycroft, the glance he shoots Sherlock before disappearing into the kitchen confirming it. They'd been discussing their stories in the past week, and both knew of Mycroft's meddling. Mycroft himself was not far behind John, leaning casually on his umbrella, not quite crossing the threshold. He knows there's something in the air, Sherlock realizes. Sherlock would have been astonished (though not particularly disappointed) had he not.

"I feel rather like I'm walking into the lion's den." Mycroft says casually, his inquiry hidden behind the allusion. 'May I come in,' he's asking.

Sherlock turns his back on his older sibling. 'Enter at your own risk.' But Sherlock's confident he knows what Mycroft will do.

The click of good shoes and an umbrella on the floor proves him correct. Sherlock lifts his chin just a little, imperceptible to all but Mycroft. And maybe John; he'd gotten quite good at reading Sherlock's moods. 

"I've come to inform you that we've lost all trace of Moriarty. He seems to have just... walked off the planet." Mycroft's voice carries all it's usual grandeur, but Sherlock still knows that sentence to be false. 'He's all yours,' Mycroft's telling him. It's a peace offering. 

"I'll see what I can do." Sherlock replies dismissively, but his words carry more meaning. 'I'll take the case.'

There's a moment of silence, both sides sizing each other up, deciding who's move it is and what each will do. Then,

"There is one other matter we have yet to clear up." Mycroft glances toward John, who's hovering just on the edge of the kitchen, sensing there's more going on, but not sure what it is. 

"If you want to talk, Mycroft, maybe we should just talk." Sherlock speaks plainly. He doesn't want to discuss this subject, especially not in some convoluted riddle. "For John's sake, as he will have to be included in this conversation."

Mycroft considers the proposal like it's a declaration of war before finally nodding once. Sherlock nods in return, and the silence descends again. 

Mycroft's eyes flicker between Sherlock and John once, clearly hoping one of them would speak first. But John is wisely keeping his mouth shut, and Sherlock nods briefly at him in encouragement. He will make Mycoft move first.

Eventually, Mycroft takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "I need to know what's going on, Sherlock. I have bits of data that cannot possibly line up and I know you and the good Doctor Watson know what's going on. Now it's time to tell me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees John look at him, but doesn't meet his gaze as Mycroft's full attention is on him. He and John did discuss this matter, and while they can say, roughly, what happened, they cannot explain how or why. Two very frustrating truths to Sherlock. And, he knows, to Mycroft, who he believes has already guessed and dismissed the truth as an impossibility. So let's find out, shall we? Sherlock thinks slyly. 

"What do you think happened, Mycroft. I'd love to hear any theory you have." Sherlock's voice is dripping in sarcasm, a challenge Mycroft cannot get out of if he wants answers. A sigh and the slight rustle of clothing in the silent flat proves Mycroft knows he is trapped.

"I have several logical, but improbable explanations, Sherlock. But you already knew that. The fact that you asked me what I think suggests you believe I've already guessed the truth, and want to see how much I know." Mycroft's voice manages to be frustrated and bored at the same time. Sherlock refuses to bristle at the tone or the truth.

"What about your illogical explanations, Mycroft?" Sherlock turns to face him, dead serious now. "What about something that makes no sense?"

"If that's what you believe is going on, then you must be mistaken. That scenario is pure fantasy, Sherlock-" Mycroft tries to insist, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"Then how do you explain it? That is the only theory that fits all the facts." 

"Then maybe you don't have all the facts." Mycroft responds. 

"Actually, it's more likely you don't have all the facts, Mr. Holmes. Because you didn't see any of it, and didn't hear my side of the story yet." John intercedes, surprising both Holmes' brothers. He doesn't shy away from the attention he suddenly gets. 

"John is right, Mycroft." Sherlock turns back to his sibling. "As impossible as it may sound, John came through the paintings." Mycroft's head snaps around to look at him, the disbelief and defiance clear in his eyes. 

"It is impossible. There have to be other explanations, Sherlock." Mycroft bites back. 

"Perhaps. With drugs, doubles. But there would be too many variables to be able to do that and do it well. And why? Why, Mycroft? That was before I'd even heard of Moriarty, and he would be the only one even remotely capable of doing something like that." Sherlock argues, and by the look on Mycroft's face, he knows those facts are the same ones his brother's been wrestling with. 

The silence comes back as Mycroft realizes Sherlock's caught him and is desperately seeking for the out anyway, and Sherlock waits patiently, for once not gloating in his success. He's wrestling with his own set of questions. 

Mycroft's buzzing phone breaks the silence, and he looks down to answer it. Sherlock looks at John, who stares back.

"It looks like we'll have to continue this conversation some other time, Sherlock. I have a rather pressing matter to deal with." Mycroft states and he tucks his phone back in his pocket. He looks over at John. "Have a good day, Dr. Watson." He gives Sherlock the barest of glances before sweeping out of the flat. A minute later Sherlock sees a black car pull away down the road.

"He's not going to let this go, is he, Sherlock?" John asks, coming over to stand by his partner.

"You're very observant, John." Sherlock responds absently. 

"Well, it doesn't take a consulting detective to figure out he wasn't happy with your answer." John explains. Sherlock nods. John nuzzles Sherlock in the neck. "You still frustrated?"

Sherlock sighs, letting his shoulders drop. "I accept it happened, John. A fact I'm grateful for. But I want to know how it happened."

John slides a hand into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock lets himself relax, leaning back into the touch. John kisses his neck softly, his breath tickling Sherlock's skin as he talks. 

"Well, worry about it later. We've got plans to make."

A wicked smile curves over Sherlock's face as he remembers. Oh, what a beautiful plot. "Yes we do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end. I'd like to thank everyone who read, commented, left kudos. I'd like to thank everyone who help give me plot bunnies, especially Sue. And I can't forget ariandedevere for her life-saving transcripts.  
> I have no idea if I will continue this, and I just started something new, so if I do it won't be for awhile. But we'll see.  
> Thank you all so much!


End file.
